Dream On
by NotMarge
Summary: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters has finally reopened to brimming hope in the face of all that has come to pass. Now they just have to do one thing. Make it work. (Spanning the gulf between DoFP and Apocalypse.) 4th in the Hank McCoy saga.
1. Dream On

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

* * *

". . . look in the mirror . . ."

A typical day in the fall of 1974.

Hive of activity.

Noise.

Clatter.

Chatter.

Voices.

Music.

". . . lines on my face getting clearer . . ."

Children. Teenagers. People

Everywhere.

Well, not _that_ many.

Less than two dozen students.

A fourth or so that many teachers.

Handful of assorted support staff.

". . . past is gone . . ."

So, not that many really.

Especially considering the vast size of Xavier Manor.

But after so long with so few, even after six months, Charles Xavier still found himself in a state of mild, pleasant shock at the positive turn of events of the past year and a half.

". . . dusk to dawn . . ."

Searched. Searched, they had searched using Cerebro. He and Hank and some of the others.

They had searched for other mutants.

Mutants that needed support. Needed shelter.

To bring to the mansion.

". . . that the way . . . got their dues in life to pay . . ."

He had been sober for a year and a half from his addiction to Hank's well-meaning regeneration serum.

The serum that Hank had invented to help his suffering friend.

That Charles himself had come to abuse.

So much so that he had lost himself in it. And his pain over losing Raven.

So much so that he had nearly allowed the entire world to begin to be destroyed.

All for his own selfish petulance.

". . . nobody knows . . . and where it goes . . ."

Logan the Wolverine, a future man from the end of the world, had fought mutant tooth over mutant nail to keep that from happening.

To save him from himself.

To save them all from the end of the world.

And then, just as Charles had begun to find his way back, Logan the Wolverine had vanished.

And they couldn't find him.

It troubled him still.

". . . everybody's sin . . . lose to know how to win . . ."

But he must move on, must keep going.

For the sake of those who needed him.

So many that needed him. Needed them.

A year and a half confined to the wheelchair.

A year and a half learning once more to control the voices, the cries that reached out to him.

They had been worse than ever. More anguished, more desperate.

Excruciating, it had been excruciating to endure at first.

". . . learn from fools and from sages . . ."

He had been so weak, so very, very weak.

But the interaction with his future self, the one with no hair and ancient eyes still full of enduring hope, had stayed with him.

His words. Their meaning.

And those ancient eyes.

". . . the things . . . come back to you . . ."

And Charles Xavier had known he had to persevere, overcome.

He worked at it every day.

Every single day.

Sometimes he couldn't survive an entire day all at once.

". . . with me . . . sing for the year . . ."

Sometimes he could only survive by the hour.

The minute.

One second to the next.

But he had done it.

". . . for the laughter . . . sing for the tear . . ."

So far.

And now, rolling smoothly through the one open wing of Xavier Manor, he was glad he had.

Grateful.

Because the less than twenty students milling around him now had a safe haven, a home in which to live.

Grow their powers.

And safely find acceptance.

". . . with me . . . if it's just for today . . ."

Initially, new students typically slunk in, embarrassed and afraid of their powers.

It never failed to bring joy to Charles' heart to see them open up. Begin to let go of their fear and learn to embrace their gifts.

Accept them.

And each other.

Tucked away within the countryside of upper state New York, they felt safe.

Cared for.

Protected.

". . . take you away . . ."

To the outside world, they might be carnival sideshows, freaks.

But here in the safe haven of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, they were simply kids.

Kids who liked to laugh and joke around.

Play basketball. Watch TV.

Hang out in the sunshine.

". . . dream on . . . dream on . . ."

Kids who hated homework, contrived to skip class.

And whispered about the adults of the school.

Fascinating mutants like 'Rollin' Professor X' and 'Claws McCoy'.

'Sticky Fingers' Hope and 'Chloroform You with Her Brains' Chloe.

But it was all in good fun.

". . . dream on . . . dream on . . ."

And they never whispered very much. Or very loudly. Or very harshly.

Because they all knew. Each and every one of them knew exactly where they would be, had been, before the sanctuary of Xavier's.

It wasn't easy, overseeing the first mutant academy.

Especially under the scrutiny of those humans who wanted nothing more than to subjugate mutants to absolute rule and control out of misunderstanding and fear.

Both worse and better after Erik's little catastrophe.

But so far, it had worked.

Not perfectly, no.

". . . dream until your dream comes true . . ."

But at least they were trying.

He paused in his ruminations.

The song was quite good.

A floating, unassuming voice. But the lyrics were quite apropos and inspirational in their simplicity.

Until that average mellow, floating voice changed.

Rose up and evolved into something else.

". . . dream on . . . dream on . . ."

And stunned Professor X forgot his ruminations for a moment.

 _What the bloody hell was_ that _? Oh dear, sure he isn't a mutant? Those are some powerful sonic waves, aren't they? Oh dear._

Then he managed to refocus himself on what had become his life's endeavor.

The school.

The safe haven for the children.

It was all going along swimmingly.

There was just one thing at this moment that weighed particularly on his mind.

Professor X smiled thinly to himself.

And rolled on in quest of his . . .

". . . dream on . . . dream until your dream comes true . . ."

* * *

 **Hello! Interested in another X-Men fic? I'm going to be spanning the time between DoFP and Apocalypse. Using the mutants we know and love/hate. As well as my OCs Chloe and Hope.**

 **As for this first chapter, I've gotten a little obsessed with the original recording of Aerosmith's 'Dream On' and decided to use it for my theme of this story.**

 **Plus, as mentioned, I can see Professor X hearing Steven Tyler's screech for the first time and thinking 'mutant?' because it's like, 'what just happened' when you are unprepared (and sometimes prepared) to hear it. In my opinion anyway. ;)**

 **Anyway, I'll be updating frequently I think, though not on any particular schedule. (3 kids, 2 of them under 2, yeah, it takes time and effort, ha)**

 **So, say hi if you're interested because . . .**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Differing Theories

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Differing Theories

* * *

Hank McCoy shifted his gaze from left to right, right to left. Alert, calculating.

Searching for an escape route.

From his own lab nonetheless.

Not that he was a coward per se.

He had faced adversaries before.

Hellbent Hellfire Club teleporters.

Magneto controlled giant Sentinels.

Wolverine and his silver tongue of insults.

Just . . . none quite like this.

Hank knew his limitations. And he was definitely not prepared for the consequences of losing this particular battle.

But despite his best efforts, he was slowly being backed into a corner, opposition surrounding him on every side.

And no discernable way out.

There _were_ the giant, sun-streaked, plate glass windows to his left.

But jumping out them seemed like an extreme measure to take.

At least for the time being.

It was his own stupid fault really.

For being what he was.

A brilliant, scientifically minded mutant.

Of Xavier Manor.

Because therein lay his downfall.

For it was that very characteristic that made him such an easy target.

The scientifically minded part.

And the mutant part.

And the Xavier Manor part.

Those very aspects of himself were the reason he was doomed to lose this battle.

This war.

And be taken hostage for it.

"Hank, all I'm saying is you have a very good way of explaining challenging scientific concepts so that those less learned of us can understand them more easily."

Hank didn't reply, so struck with a sudden bout of panic was he.

Charles Xavier continued.

"I really believe you would be a wonderful teacher, Hank. I really do. The children already respect you so much."

 _Flattery will get you nowhere, Charles._

But it was kind of working. A little.

He, Henry Phillip McCoy, respected, esteemed professor.

Facing down scores of teenagers nearly day.

Teenagers.

With their raging hormones and nonexistent attention spans.

Hank ducked his head, caught and captured and struggling to break free.

"Uh, I don't know, Charles."

Without even using his powers, the wheel-chaired man seemed to read his mind.

See the doubts, the worries, the fears.

And smiled gently.

"Well, you think about a few days and let me know."

Then he quietly removed himself from the room and allowed Hank his privacy.

To think.

To mull.

To panic.

* * *

Naturally, he talked to Hope about it.

And she, of course, responded appropriately.

"Oh, Hank, you would be so _good_ at teaching! Those kids could learn so _much_ from you!"

Hope, his dear wife. Always a believer in him, right from the beginning.

Her face practically glowed with excitement and pride at the notion.

 _Oh no, she's just as crazy as Charles._

Still, it was something of an exciting prospect.

Professor Hank McCoy.

Molding, crafting young minds.

Fascinating experiments, projects to illustrate challenging concepts.

Maybe even a well controlled explosion every now and again to refocus their wandering attentions.

And even utilizing their unique, individual powers to further engage the lesson.

To get them to hone and feel pride in their abilities instead of feeling ashamed and afraid.

But that was foolish, ridiculous thinking.

 _I . . . I can't do that. I can't . . . be that. I'm just . . . me._

But the thought stuck with him anyway.

* * *

Alex, albeit a friend (sort of), responded to the new possible development a bit more honestly to Charles' idea.

In Hank's opinion.

" _You?_ A teacher? Come on, Beastie, they'd eat you _alive_!"

 _I can always count on you, Ring of Fire._

As mature as he was, Hank couldn't refrain from slumping a little and snarking back his own reply.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Alex, still sporting his military crew cut, made a face at him.

"Oh come on, Hank, you know I'm just kidding."

As Hank tilted his head at the mutant in frustration, Alex shrugged.

"Okay, seriously? You'd be terrible at first. Bore them to death probably. But you could learn to get better. I think you should do it."

 _Should have known better than to teeter-totter this conversation with Alex._

As Hank waited for the other shoe to drop, Alex wandered the lab a little, inspecting vials of brightly-colored viscous fluid.

 _Please don't touch my stuff. That's my stuff._

"And you'd have to get used to people touching your stuff too, Bigfoot."

 _Sigh._

* * *

He didn't know why he mentioned it to Peter the Quicksilver Kid.

Except they were both in the cavernous kitchen at the time.

Making sandwiches.

Peter had slowed down for some reason Hank couldn't figure.

He did that sometimes.

Slowed down long enough for other people to get a word in.

Or a knife in the mayo.

"Charles wants me to teach a class."

Peter responded exactly as Hank would have expected him to.

"Cool."

 _Well, probably not cold molecule experiments the first day. We'll need some introductory groundwork first, don't you - oh._

"I don't know if I'm gonna do it."

"Cool."

 _Well, this conversation is riveting._

"Alex thinks I'd be terrible. I think that's why he wants me to do it."

About half the Cheddar Taters in the cellophane bag on the counter disappeared, magically reappearing on Peter's plate.

"Naw, he's just yankin' your chain. You'd be fine."

A casual but seemingly sincere vote of confidence.

"You think so?"

A rush of wind plus the sudden addition of an open coke next to potato chip-ed plate suggested Peter had taken a jaunt to the fridge during Hank's life crisis.

"Yeah, sure. I'd take your class."

 _Now there's an idea. The Quicksilver Kid takes chemistry._

"Really?"

A rush of air plus three new chocolate chip cookies belied the movements of the speedster.

"Yeah. Only I don't do homework. And no classes before noon."

Before Hank could reply, he found himself quite alone in the kitchen.

He smiled to himself.

Finished up his ham and cheese on rye.

Cleaned up the mess.

And decided that he just might do it after all.

Well, consider it anyway.

* * *

 **Not quite the drama you were expecting? Oh well. Not everything has to be.**

 **And I just like having fun with Hank and our friends here.**

 **And apparently I'm hungry.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for your reviews! I'm glad you're here**

 **Thanks also to AutumnLeaves03 and Roanhoznad for adding your support to this tale.**


	3. Hank McCoy, Super Genius

I do not own X-Men anything.

I do own a classroom. Not chemistry.

Dream On

Hank McCoy, Super Genius

* * *

"Chemistry is, uh, a branch of science that, uh, deals with identifying the substances of, uh, which matter is composed."

The first class was not going well.

"It, uh, also involves investigating the properties of matter, and, uh, . . "

It wasn't that Hank McCoy didn't know his stuff.

". . . the ways in which they, uh, interact . . ."

He was, after all, Hank McCoy. Certified super genius.

" . . . as well as, uh, combine and change . . ."

Much like Wiley E. Coyote, really.

" . . . to form new substances."

Only with less aplomb and pizzazz.

Because as confident and apt as he was alone in his lab.

With his few friends.

Or his girl.

Fighting off Sentinels.

Sneering, red-skinned teleporters.

And monkey-toed foot fungus.

He was still awkward around teenagers.

Mutant or otherwise.

He was _trying_.

To speak coherent words.

Take deep breaths.

And not pass out.

And they, science help them, were trying too.

The bright sunlight slanting in through the large plate glass windows of his laboratory cast them in full view he could not help but notice.

The students, a sparse handful of them.

Eyes glazed, slightly unfocused.

Staring, they were _staring_.

Not in rapture at him and his dy-no-mite speaking abilities.

But at the wall.

Trying not to fall asleep.

Drool.

Snore.

One kid was actually _trying_ to notes it looked like.

Except upon further inspection . . .

 _Stupid functional eyeglasses. I wish I were blind._

. . . it turned out, she was just drawing.

Ever widening circles on her paper.

 _Is that a black hole come to swallow me up? Please let it be now._

He plunged onward, with the flailing hope that the social anxiety engulfing him would soon dissipate.

And he would emerge victorious.

And a glorious first time chemistry teacher.

Or at least finish this lecture without keeling over.

Hank just managed to make almost eye contact with Peter Maximoff, the Quicksilver Kid.

Only to be stymied by his entire face.

Thinly veiled. In a set rictus of a supportive smile.

To hide the pain-filled grimace underneath.

 _Damn, man. You suck._

 _I know._

 _Like a vacuum cleaner on a Saturday, man._

 _Yeah._

It was a brave smile.

A grim smile.

An I'm-here-for-you-even-if-it-kills-me-man smile.

And Hank felt like banging his head on the podium in front of him.

Just a little.

Just a bit.

Just until he blacked out with a concussion.

 _Alex was right. Oh man. I suck so bad._

* * *

"I can't do it again, Hope. It was _terrible_."

She ran her fingers through his short brown hair as he sat on the floor, back pressed to the foot of their bed.

Completely and utterly defeated.

His grand hour and a half lecture had lasted twenty minutes before he'd quit.

Asked if anyone had any questions 'so far'.

And when no one conscious had, he dismissed them for the day.

And slunk off somewhere to quietly weep.

And figure out how to convince Charles he was unfit for public consumption.

Instead, he'd found Hope.

Lovely, lovely Hope.

"Sure you can, Hank. You can do anything."

Lovely, deluded Hope.

"No, I can't. I get so nervous. And I just talked and talked and talked. They almost fell _asleep_ , Hope."

They sat in mute companionship for several minutes. Hope's strong gentle fingers rubbing the pounding headache of shame from his cranium.

Finally, she spoke.

"Okay, so what was the problem exactly?"

 _I have to pick just one?_

He sighed heavily.

"I was . . . boring. Chemistry is fascinating, exhilarating. I mean, it's _the_ central science. Everything connects with it. It's all about the interactions between substances. The reactions. There's just so much to it!"

Hope spoke slowly, as if trying to figure out how to proceed with her words.

"Okay, so . . . how can you show them that? Get them interested?"

He thought about it.

"I guess I could tell them . . ."

Hope interrupted him.

"No, you already tried talking. And you said it was boring."

He exhaled in frustration.

"Hope, they need to understand the _fundamentals_ of chemistry-"

Her tone remained just as sensible as his.

"Yes, Hank. But you need to draw them in first. Get them interested. Excite them about it the way _you're_ excited about it."

She paused then dropped the final shoe.

"Less talking at them, Hank. For now. Until you're better at it."

He twisted around, blue eyes wounded behind his thick framed glasses, at the woman who was _supposed_ to love and support him in all things.

Her face was open. Honest.

And he realized she _was_ supporting and loving him.

Just like always.

And that she was right.

And waiting for him to catch up.

So he turned back around, resumed his position as she resumed massaging his scalp.

And thought about it.

* * *

Science save him, almost against his will, every single one of the kids showed up again for his next class.

And Hank McCoy was a fit of nerves.

Worse than before.

Because he'd already failed once.

In front of _teenagers_.

And he did _not_ want to fail again.

They filed in, sat down. And prepared themselves.

For _school_.

Boring, boring, boring school.

Where they dutifully sat.

And grownups talked at them.

About boring stuff.

And they _had_ to listen.

Hank took a deep breath.

Centered himself. As best he could.

And remembered Hope.

"Not so much the talking this time, Hank."

He cleared his throat. Checked his notes.

His edited notes.

His _severely_ edited notes.

His severely Hope-edited notes.

"Less is more, Hank. Less is more."

And, trusting his wife was not leading him further into the valley of the shadow social anxiety death, began.

"Good morning."

A little less convincingly than he'd intended.

But he kept going.

"Safety goggles, gloves, and aprons on, please."

The somewhat reluctant acceptance hanging over his students seemed to lift slightly as they glanced around in surprise at each other.

Then at him.

"Well," Hank gestured, trying to sound nonchalant, "go ahead."

The Quicksilver Kid was the first to respond, ruffling the air and appearing in full scientifically outfitted garb in the blink of an eye.

"We gonna blow something up, Prof?" he piped up, calmly chawing on his Juicy Fruit.

Hank felt a grin slipping its way onto his face.

He forced him to shrug casually.

"If you're lucky."

Curious mutterings broke out amongst the gathered.

And they started grabbing and donning the required items.

* * *

They'd _loved_ it!

Well, they'd _liked_ it.

A lot, actually.

There'd been bursts of utterances and exclamations when the aluminum powder and metal oxide mixture had ignited.

"AHHH!"

Hank had been momentarily terrified one of the kids would forget his cautions and suffer a flash burn.

"WHOA!"

And he would have to face the wrath of his wife, the no-nonsense nurse Hope.

"OH, MAN!"

Even though he had explained the experiment and dangers to her.

"HOLY CRAP!"

And she had been very supportive of his idea.

"DAMN, DUDE!"

But everything had gone fine.

Great, in fact.

They'd even paid _attention_ to his brief explanation.

 _And_ written down the chemical equations he'd chalked up on the board.

And the notes.

The very _few_ notes Hope had allowed . . .

"Minimalism, Hank. Just at the start. Trust me."

. . . without any sighs or eye-rolls or hesitancies.

Of course, it might have helped that when the metallic fire had suddenly flared up, one of the kids had openly panicked.

And immediately attempted to douse the chemical flames with water from her fingertips.

Chemically induced metallic flames did not of course extinguish by water alone.

Hank quickly and calmly directed her as to how to safely put out the flames.

While at the same time trying to avert attention away from her red-cheeked embarrassment by telling the true story of the time when he was six and had set his bedroom curtains on fire during a similar science experiment.

And ending with yet more wonderful mutant news.

"But remember, your powers are a good thing. And the more comfortable you . . ."

 _. . . I . . ._

". . . get with the safety procedures and your own powers, the more you'll be able to use your abilities during the experiments."

 _Did I just promise them that? Oh boy. Must be overexcited._

And that had made them _even_ happier.

When he'd dismissed class, they even walked out, whispering to each other

And _smiling_.

And when everyone else was gone, Peter Maximoff appeared in his customary breeze.

"Nice work, Prof."

High-fived a slightly embarrassed Hank.

Shot him a muted satisfied grin.

"Told ya you'd do fine."

And disappeared once more.

Blowing Hank's notes off the podium.

And onto the floor.

Hank didn't really mind.

Well, not too much.

* * *

"Hey, how'd it go?"

Hope, rising from her nursing dummy, seemed to have no doubt that it had gone better before he even spoke.

Which made him love her even more.

And he'd swept her up.

And kissed her.

Right on the mouth.

Right in front of her entire CPR class.

"Ooooooooo . . ."

Quite un-McCoy-like.

 _Oh can it, you kids. She's amazing._

* * *

 **Well, everybody's gotta start somewhere, right?**

 **And some of us, (me, me, me) gotta fall on our faces first before we can get it right.**

 **Before you think, oh boy, she's gonna bore us to death with ten years of Hank teaching chemistry, I say thee nay.**

 **Just had to finish the idea from the previous chap.**

 **Thanks to That Gypsy Writer and brigid1318 for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to** **lauraaosnes for adding your support as well.**

 **Now, let's see. What else can we talk about?**

 **Oh yeah ;)**


	4. Midnight Calls & Hormonal Teenagers

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Midnight Phone Calls and Hormonal Teenagers

* * *

It started in the winter of 1974.

Phone calls at random. No pattern. No regularity. More likely than not, in the middle of the night. And never more than a few minutes at a time. From a friend unable let go of the bond and cause of another friend.

 _"Do you believe in God, Charles?"_

A difficult quandary in the best of circumstances.

Of which this was not one.

Best of circumstances.

 _"I used to believe."_

Erik Lensherr's disembodied voice floated on electrical wires and through cords into Charles Xavier's waiting ears.

 _"I sat with my mother in our hovel in the Jewish slums and watched her light the menorah. I focused on the thin, flickering lights surrounded by so much encroaching darkness."_

The lightly accented voice paused as if gathering its next words, arranging them properly before setting them loose.

Or perhaps simply struggling to contain the lingering pain and abiding rage within.

 _"I watched the lights and listened to the stories. I felt my mother's warm, thin hand gentle upon my cheek. And I believed even then that we would somehow be saved. Saved from starvation. Saved from the bitter cold. Saved from the cruelty of the Nazis."_

Another pause, more laden than the last.

 _"But we weren't saved, Charles. Not by man and not by God. And from then forward, I have ceased having faith in either."_

Charles Xavier sensed he was expected to send forth some sort of reply. A reply that no doubt would be verbally shut down in the face of his old friend's unyielding, uncompromising belief.

Or rather, lack thereof.

But he pressed forward anyway.

"What do you have faith in then, Erik?"

The response was hollow in its dark simplicity.

 _"Nothing anymore, Charles. Nothing at all."_

A very Erik answer such as he had come to expect.

"That sounds very miserable, Erik. Very lonely and very sad."

But he himself was alone.

In the dead of night.

In Xavier Manor, surrounded by fellow mutants.

Sleeping and unaware of his turmoil.

They themselves fighting their own battles, struggling with their own uncertainties.

And looking to him, their wise and fearless leader for understanding and safety and guidance.

And he alone in the dark.

Talking to a dead phone line.

And for all his telepathic communicative abilities, a universe which did not talk back.

Or give him any answers at all.

* * *

The daylight hours held a bit more distraction and much more light.

Which was a good thing.

Because Xavier Manor was a boarding school of sorts.

A mutant boarding school.

Many students, few teachers.

A handful of caretakers, housekeepers, and general staff.

All with powers.

And boarding schools have rules.

Same with Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.

Abide the grounds' curfew.

Attend class.

Complete assignments.

And, above all else, respect your powers and the powers of others.

In other words, don't use your powers to hurt or control others.

Extenuating circumstances not withstanding.

Unfortunately, juveniles, mutants included, are known to act hastily. Rashly. Without sense or reason.

* * *

"Let me go!"

"No, not until you both calm down."

"Let me go, you big, blue _monkey_!"

"Calling me names really isn't going to make me let you go any faster, you know."

"Let me _go_!"

Hank stopped bothering to reply to the irate little brats dangling from his blue clawed grip.

The kids, a boy no more than fourteen and his buddy, were completely out of control over some girl.

They had been using their powers against each other, the biggest no-no at Xavier Manor.

And Hank had heard the commotion and stopped to calm the fray.

Verbally hadn't worked.

So now here they were.

With the hormonally imbued teenage performers.

And a gathering crowd of onlookers.

 _The future of America. Oh my stars and garters._

He suddenly saw a vision of himself clonking their heads together like in one of the Saturday morning cartoons the kids liked.

And decided there must be some way to resolve the problem without causing skull fractures and lingering brain damage.

He supposed.

Though the other way would be much quicker. More decisive.

And in the Beast's opinion, much more fun.

Still, Hope wouldn't like it.

And Hank was a gentleman.

Whose ears were beginning to ring with the adamant protests of the captured.

"What's going on here, gentleman?"

Professor Charles Xavier's stern, yet somehow still mild, voice cut through the din.

Causing everyone to turn and look at him.

Sitting as always in his wheelchair, an expression of calm consternation on his smooth face.

The howling kids stopped, dangling ridiculously like oversized marionettes.

"They were using their powers against each other, Professor," a girl called out.

The two criminals but their eyes toward the voice, searching for the snitch.

But the mutant in question had made herself invisible, thus escaping detection.

Charles shifted his gaze to the students in question and their blue furred captor.

"Hank, is this true?"

Hank simply nodded.

Though surely displeased, the Professor showed no outward anger.

"Gentleman," began Professor X evenly. "I'd like a word with you in my study, please. May I trust your civility?"

The pair nodded, though Hank doubted they actually knew the meaning of the term 'civility'.

"Release them please, Hank."

Restraining himself from simply opening his hands and letting them plummet unceremoniously to the paraquet, Hank slowly lowered them down until their feet touched down.

Sulking and refusing to make eye contact with anyone, the boys grungingly slunk behind the professor into his first floor study.

The door shut, effectively barring the rubbernecking crowd from sight or sound within.

They shuffled their feet awkwardly, trying to decide what to do, how to go, where to go.

Or even if they should.

Hank simplified it for them.

"Go to class."

He _was_ a big, blue Beast.

And a teacher.

So they didn't argue.

* * *

He himself stayed around, allowing the Beast to melt away before setting himself on a couch a polite distance away from Charles' study door.

Hoping to be in range if Charles needed him.

Not that Charles would.

Charles, as a matter of fact, was a very powerful telepath. Could delve into their thoughts. Control their actions if need be.

Which always set Hank in a state of disquiet when he considered the implications of such an ability.

The power to delve into a person's consciousness, subconsciousness.

Take control.

Change thoughts.

Guide actions.

It was a heavy power, a potentially corruptive power.

One not to be taken lightly.

And as far as Hank could surmise, Charles viewed it as such.

Never using it for selfish gain (past collegiate silliness, as Charles had confessed to Hank long ago) or without the utmost care and sincerity.

Thankfully, most of the students at Xavier's were so grateful to be there and out of the public eye and away from those mutant haters.

So, apart from powers training, they pretty much behaved themselves, followed the rules, and did as requested.

On the few occasions there were confrontations, they were escorted to Charles' study for a conference.

And exited quietly, to resume their time at the School for Gifted Youngsters more in control and docile than before.

Hank would have been lying if he had said it made him a little uneasy from time to time.

What happened in the study, stayed in the study.

And that in itself required an enormous amount of faith on anyone's part.

Including Hank's.

And so, when the reformed juveniles left the room, dutifully apologizing to Professor McCoy as they went, Hank went in.

Charles, sitting at his desk, was recording the event in a ledger he kept for such occasion, writing in neat, compact script.

And greeted Hank cordially, a fleeting smile on his handsome face.

"Thank you for stepping in out there, Hank. These children have a tendency to get quite worked up, I'm afraid."

Hank nodded in agreement, then posed his mannerly, seemingly casual question."

"How did you calm them down, Charles?"

Charles looked up and with clear eyes and an honest tone to his mild voice.

"I reminded them that living with other mutants in Xavier Manor was a privilege. One that could be taken away if they did not learn to control their behavior and their actions."

Hank considered this carefully.

"And that's all it took?"

Charles nodded, a smile on his sincere face.

"That's all it took."

Hank remained where he was for a moment.

 _'The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping prison is to make sure he never knows he's in prison.'_

 _I wonder if Charles has thought of this._

 _Probably._

Hank hesitated a moment longer.

Then genially made his exit.

"I'll let you continue your work then."

Charles picked his pen back up.

"Good day, Hank."

* * *

 **Okay, little explanation here. The phone call might be familiar to you because it (and the others I'll scatter throughout the story) are part a mini-story I posted called "Voice on the Other End". It was always supposed to be part of this story but at the time I was waiting for Apocalypse and didn't have the patience to wait for this story to set up shop.**

 **Anyway, there ya go.**

 **And for the record, I do personally believe in God. Not the Santa Clause God or the Easter Bunny God. But a God that set this whole thing spinning and now is watching to see what we do with it.**

 **And that's where I'll stop my soapbox on that.**

 **The second part is new material. The prisoner quote is from Fyodor Dostoevsky courtesy of Pinterest. Make of it what you will.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay and brigid1318 for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to SecretFan711 for adding your support to the story.**


	5. Things You Cannot Take Back

I do not own X-Men anything.

This is what happens when I watch X2 with my son. Yeah.

Dream On

Things You Cannot Take Back

* * *

Like many people involved in the care and education of children, Charles Xavier found on frequent occasion that the problem lay not primarily with the children themselves.

But with their adult counterparts.

Whatever issues with which the children presented, it often originated with them.

Their parents.

Such as now.

"I brought him here for you to _help_ him, Professor Xavier!"

Charles forced himself to remain calm. He knew where this was going.

"We _are_ helping him, Major Stryker."

He had been down this path many times before with other parents of his wards.

"No, you're _encouraging_ him! I wanted this abomination inside him to be _eradicated_ , not _nurtured_!"

Despite the relative warmth in the room, Charles felt himself growing colder.

"Mutation is not an abomination. It is a gift, the next step in the evolutionary path. It is not a disease to be cured."

Stryker scoffed.

"I knew I should have had him committed instead of bringing him here! My wife begged me into it but I knew this hippie school wouldn't be able to help!"

Charles kept his face passive, refrained from clenching his jaw.

"Major Stryker, mutation is not a mental illness. It is a genetic anomaly."

The military man's face twisted.

"He's _dangerous_! He can get into people's minds! Show them things that aren't real!"

He seemed to swell with rage, his six foot tall frame towering.

"If you aren't going to help him get rid of this problem, I'll take him out of here and find someone who will! I will not allow my son to be a dangerous _freak_!"

Nearing the edge of his patience, Charles tried again.

"He is not a _freak_ , Major Stryker. He is a child, a mutant child. And if he is not carefully guided and taught to use his powers properly, he could become more dangerous than you or I could possibly imagine."

Stryker shook his head, eyes nearly aflame.

"No! I'm taking him out of here and somewhere they'll be able to stop this madness! This is over!"

Charles leaned forward, voice imploring.

"Please, please do not do this. I don't know what will happen if you choose this course of action, but I can assure you, you will come to regret it."

Stryker's eyes narrowed even more dangerously than before. He took a menacing step forward.

"Are you _threatening_ me, Xavier?"

Charles kept his peaceful stance.

"No, William, I am not."

He took a deep breath.

"I am _begging_ you on behalf of your son. Please do not take him away from this place. He needs to be here. This is the best place for him."

In truth, Charles wasn't sure if it was or not anymore.

He had purposefully declined to relate to Stryker some very important details regarding his son's stay at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

The fact that the boy with the messy brown hair and heterchromiated eyes was, indeed, more powerful a mutant child than Charles had ever encountered before.

The fact that he readily used his powers of mind control and illusion on the other children. Lay false visions in their minds without their permission.

Positive, whimsical, cheery ones if he were in a good mood or wanting to make a new friend.

Dark, frightening, confusing horrors if he were feeling devious or petulant.

He seemed to be developing psychopathic tendencies, losing empathy for others. Becoming more and more manipulative.

Becoming indeed, a very real danger to others. And himself when they became fearful or angry with his shenanigans and retaliated back at him.

The fact that Charles was beginning to fear for the safety of the other children and adults in the school above the needs of Jason himself.

And part of him, though guilty and ashamed, would be secretly relieved to not have to deal with the worries and concerns the boy's presence placed upon him here at the school.

Perhaps that was why, beside the fact he truly did believe the child could become even more dangerous without his watchful eye, he was fighting so hard to keep him here at the school.

All these things he kept from Stryker.

As the man was already highly proving to be unreasonable enough as it was.

"You will _not_ tell me what I can and cannot do with my own son! He is _my_ son, not yours!"

And he stormed away.

Hank, having lingered out of sight, yet close enough for Charles' protection, stepped forward.

Both men were grim.

Finally Hank spoke.

"You could just stop him, Charles. Change his mind. Just this once."

Charles shook his head.

"No, Hank. When I let Raven go, I promised myself I would not control others any longer. Humans and mutants alike must be allowed to make their own decisions. For good or ill."

 _Damn your pacifism, Charles. There is a time and a place for these things._

"We can only hope that he comes to his senses. For the sake of his son."

 _Yes. But I highly doubt it._

* * *

Major William F. Stryker, Jr faced Jason.

His boy.

His only son.

He had been young, working at a hidden nuclear testing facility in the middle of the empty Nevada desert when his wife had become pregnant.

Worried, so worried that he might pass some radiation sickness onto her.

Despite the reassurances of the facility technicians as to the absolute safety of the facility, Stryker was an intelligent man.

And knew substances with the capacity to do what those could must be dangerous no matter what he was told.

But she, with her bright green eyes and ready smile, had assured him all would be well.

And all had seemed to be.

Then on the way to the hospital, their car had broken down on the side of the road.

And he had feared she would die in childbirth.

She hadn't. She was a strong woman, always so strong.

It was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her all those years ago.

Feminine. Delicate. Demure. But strong on the inside.

Like an Army wife should be.

And so she had bared down again and again and pushed their son out on the side of the blisteringly hot desert road.

And he had been so proud.

Of her.

Of him.

Until he had opened his eyes.

And William had known.

One green, one blue.

Mismatched, unnatural eyes.

The eyes of a freak.

He had almost snapped the baby's neck right then and there.

Because he had known something was not right.

But his wife had screamed and cried and begged for the child.

And he had relented once more. Out of love for her.

Though in his mind's eye, he had seen himself simply reaching out to her in her weakened state.

And breaking her neck too. To save her from the loss and sorrow.

Then simply walking into the desert and letting it swallow him up.

Instead, against his better judgment, he had driven them on to the hospital.

The doctors had checked out both mother and babe.

Declared them both fit and sound.

Disregarded the child's eyes as simply a curious abnormality.

And sent them home.

Years of struggle, years of shame, of hiding.

Of trying to support and love the odd child.

His doting mother.

And hold it all together.

And now here they were.

The boy, all of twelve years old, had the audacity now to attempt to defy his father.

"No! I don't _want_ to leave! I _like_ it here!"

Stryker held out his hand.

"Come on, son. Let's go."

The boy backed away.

"No! You can't make me! I'm staying here!"

William's face darkened, his jaw clenched.

"Jason. We are leaving. Now."

The boy's face matched his father's in determination and stubborness.

"NO!"

And William's mind was suddenly assaulted with a vision.

His house on fire.

His wife burning. Her blond hair in flames. Screaming.

Himself in the fire. Unable to reach her.

He could _feel_ the it burning his skin.

William Stryker squeezed his eyes shut, teeth gritted against the horror.

Dove into his pocket, pulled out the syringe.

Stepped forward, hands groping.

To the last place he had known his son to be.

And grasping the boy, jabbed the needle into his neck.

Depressed the plunger, releasing the animal tranquilizer into his bloodstream.

Within seconds, the fire evaporated.

The screams faded.

And Major William Stryker opened his eyes.

The boy lay crumpled at his feet. Quiet and still in an unnatural sleep.

His father picked him up.

Arranged him as though sleeping on his broad shoulder.

Opened the locked door.

Pushed past the goggling mutant freak children.

Their questioning mutant freak adults.

And left Xavier Manor.

* * *

Charles Xavier put down the paper, hand trembling.

"Military Housewife Dead; Officer and Son Missing"

 _I was wrong. I was so wrong._

Stryker. William Stryker.

Months ago, he had removed his son Jason from Xavier Manor.

Determined to find someone to 'cure' him of his mutation.

And now the boy's mother was dead.

Suicide.

Drill bit to the temple.

Charles could only imagine the horrors that had driven her to such extreme measures.

Stryker and mutant son vanished in thin air.

And Charles. Left to his guilt. And questions.

 _Oh dear god, what have I done?_

* * *

 **Okay, so yeah. Watching X2 with eldest son and this came to me.**

 **I mean, what drives a man to become that insane and ruthless? Even with his own kid?**

 **There are several Jason origin stories in the comics. I kinda mixed them in here and used the movie and made up some stuff too since Stryker's character probably isn't that, you know, not evil.**

 **But we know Charles must have some regrets along the way otherwise the old bald Patrick Stewart (yay!) wouldn't be so careful now, right?**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for your reviews.**

 **I promise to come back with something a bit more fun next time.**


	6. Mile High Mutants

I do not own X-Men anything.

Ready to Get Goofy? ;)

Dream On

Mile High Mutants

* * *

It was very hard to come by for kids in their particular age bracket.

Practically a treasure.

And they were going to make it last all week.

Or most of the week.

Most likely.

Probably.

Maybe.

Usage of it required nourishment.

Abundant nourishment.

Nourishment being a subjective term.

That they did not really bother themselves with.

There were four of them.

Plus their self-assigned guardian.

Lounging in one of the shut away rooms.

On couches. Chairs.

The floor.

Amid discarded pizza boxes. Half empty bottles of soda. Scattered potato chip crumbs.

And of course cookie dough.

Or the remnants thereof.

All in some state of gone-ness.

It was a mess.

But the mutants, well, they didn't seem to care too much.

They were otherwise preoccupied.

With the mysteries of the universe.

Or at least the vast empty spaces within their own heads.

". . . seriously, man! Just _think_ about it!"

They were having a grand old time.

The teenagers.

"I mean, really! What if, like, oxygen is actually a really super poisonous gas?!"

And their stash of pot.

"And it just takes eighty years to kill us, man!"

The kid with the lizard eyes was blearily wide-eyed and earnest in that way only the very insane, very high, or very stupid can be.

"No, seriously . . . _think_ about it!"

Come to think of it, the air in the room _did_ seem a tad more difficult to breathe.

Like it had it out for them or something.

The kid on the floor, the one who could run through stuff, didn't seem to be quite as concerned as the rest.

He was involved in his own set of issues.

"Oh man, my tongue's, like, _dancing_ in my mouth right now."

Lizard Eyes stared at him, paranoid and hypervigilant.

"Are you _serious_?"

Dancing Tongue chortled, swiping at his mouth vaguely.

"What? Yeah, man."

Chloe giggled, made swerve-y motions in the air with her hands.

"Ooooh, yeah. You know, dancing . . . is like . . . dreaming . . . for your feet."

Cackle of laughter.

"Oh man, that's like poetry or something. That's brilliant!"

The green-eyed girlfriend of the pseudo-mutant Ink grinned happily at ceiling shadows.

"I know, right?"

* * *

"You know, man, some days I just don't want to exist, man. I mean, it's not that I want to kill myself or anything. It's just that . . . I want to hit this big pause button and, like, sleep. For, like, _weeks_. And then like rewind everything to see what I missed, man."

"Ooooh, yeah. What's rewind?"

"What?"

"What?"

* * *

"Hey, man, hey. Hey, man. You know Jack the Ripper?"

"What, that guy that cut up and killed all those Victorian hookers?"

"Yeah, man. Him. What if, like, a bunch of the hookers got all pissed off about him killing them off and stuff, and they went all rogue and killed _him_ instead, man?"

"Huh?"

"Well, they never caught him, right?"

"Okay."

"So . . ."

This new contemplation was considered deeply for several eons at least.

Until the Quicksilver Kid set forth a ruling.

"That's kinda hot. Victorian vigilante hookers."

Having the super charged metabolism of the really, really, _really_ fast, Peter Maximoff couldn't technically _get_ high.

But he did find mild entertainment in watching the others slowly spin out of the universe.

And, since they were going to do it anyway, took it upon himself to watch after them in their altered states of consciousness.

Casually. Calmly. Coolly.

Such as now.

When Dayton, clearly thrilled his genius was being properly appreciated, responded enthusiastically.

"I know, _right_?"

But he wasn't quite done.

Not yet.

There were still more mysteries of the universe to sift through.

And more weed to smoke.

* * *

"Oh man, what if, like, there are multiple souls in our bodies . . ."

"What?"

". . . and we're just, like, the most powerful ones . . ."

"What?"

". . . and when we hear voices in our heads, that's just the weaker souls _whispering_ to us, man?!"

" _What?_ "

Silence held sway for a few seconds as this more eerie thought took hold.

Then it was unceremoniously broken.

"Oh my god, you are _so_ high right now!"

With gales of wild laughter.

* * *

It still wasn't over though.

"Oh man, what if, like, phobias are based on how you died in a past life?!"

"What?"

"You know, past life. Like where you-"

"Yeah, I know what a past life is . . ."

"Okay, so, like, what if I'm afraid of snakes because in a past life I got bit by like, a cobra, or something and died that way?"

"Oh my god, man, you have to stop it!"

"I know, man, I mean . . ."

"No, seriously, man. _Stooppp_."

* * *

They should have known their luck would run out.

Right before their stash.

"Those kind of mind-altering chemicals can be _very_ dangerous for mutants."

Charles Xavier wasn't yelling. Not exactly.

He was just . . . talking adamantly.

To the still halfway stoned mutant teenagers.

And Chloe.

Who were trying _not_ to fall down.

Because the floor was moving.

"With your powers, you could easily lose control and hurt yourselves. Or each other."

He, in a most dignified and generous way, chose not to mention the fact that they could also actually _destroy_ the manor as well.

"Sorry, Prof. I mean, uh, sir."

* * *

 **See, I promised something lighter and more fun. (At least I hope.)**

 **And yeah, this is my homage to 'That's 70s Show'. "The government invented this car that runs on water, man!" XD I still love Hyde.**

 **Plus, very '70s as well, I guess.**

 **Found some of these conspiracy theories on Pinterest. Man, I love Pinterest. Let's see, "Hacks to Clean Your House in Less Time", "New Strategies for Common Core Math", and a dollop of "Weird Conspiracy Theories", please. Heehee.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for your reviews. You both are so sweet!**


	7. The Redhead Drops a Bomb

I do not own X-Men anything.

Here we go with more redheads!

Dream On

The Redhead Drops a Bomb

* * *

Pivotal moments in Hank McCoy's life sometimes seemed to hinge on him opening the front door of Xavier Manor.

Not because he was the butler.

But because, at the current time, he had simply been walking past it.

Heading to somewhere, having come from somewhere.

And heard the tentative, yet determined knock.

He really couldn't remember at the moment.

Because he was struggling to process the person having formerly been on the other side of said door.

A girl, about thirteen or so.

Slight build.

Straight, shoulder length, pure red hair.

Pale skin, dotted with freckles.

 _Familiar_ , he kept thinking. _So familiar._

But he was quite certain he had never seen her before in his life.

"Hello. May I help you?"

She clenched her jaw. Seemed to draw herself up, gather her bravery.

Then she nodded and spoke.

"I'm Teresa Cassidy. Is Professor Xavier here?"

Hank nodded and opened the door a fraction of an inch wider.

"May I ask what this is in reference to?"

The girl seemed focused for a second on not shuffling awkwardly.

He admired her steel.

And again wondered why she seemed so familiar.

Then she blew his mind.

"I think he knew my dad, Banshee."

* * *

Hank instantly had a multitude of questions for his young guest.

 _Where did you come from?_

 _What do you know about your dad?_

 _Do you have any powers?_

 _How did you get here?_

But it was clear she needed support and a warm welcome rather than an interrogation.

So instead, he knocked on cracked-open door of Charles Xavier's study.

"Come in," called a congenial voice from within.

Hank did so, blue eyes searching the neat and welcoming space.

It looked alot different than it had only last year.

So did the man himself.

Professor Charles Xavier sat clean and clear in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, hair brushed, face shaven.

"Hello again, Hank. Back for another debate?"

Oh that's right. That's where he had been coming from.

Conversing with Charles on the merits of developing a high-tech, hologram-based training room system.

But that was far behind him for the moment.

"We have a guest requesting to see you."

Charles nodded, placing the papers back onto his desk before rolling toward his bespectacled friend.

"Wonderful."

He smiled as the suddenly shy girl stepped to stand next to Hank.

"Welcome to Xavier Manor."

She cleared her throat, seeming at a loss of words.

Hank fished her out of her drowning pool.

"Professor Charles Xavier, may I introduce . . ."

Charles cut him off.

"Oh, stop it, Hank," he admonished good naturedly. "We don't have to stand on formalities."

He rolled a little closer.

"I'm Charles Xavier."

And held out a hand. The girl looked at him anxiously.

"Teresa Cassidy . . ."

Charles' blue eyes flashed to Hank's at the name.

". . . my dad was Banshee."

Charles froze, his hand wilted.

"Sean? Sean Cassidy?!"

She nodded, looking more anxious than ever.

Charles' face pinched in instant pain.

"Oh my god, you . . . you're . . ."

He raised a now trembling hand to his mouth for a moment.

 _Oh my god, Hank . . ._

 _Yeah, I know._

Then Charles recovered himself with some effort.

And resumed his smile, stretched though it was.

"I'm sorry, I . . ."

He cleared his throat and started again.

"I apologize, Teresa. You look very much like your father."

She shrugged.

"Yeah, so I've heard."

Then she looked him straight in the eyes, as if asking a question with the dark orbs while speaking different words with her mouth.

"I've also heard I'm . . . weird like him too."

Charles studied her carefully.

"How do you mean?"

The girl continuing to look directly at Charles, opened her mouth.

Shrieked.

And shattered the crystal goblet on Charles' drink trolley.

Both men flinched, glanced at each other, then stared in shock at the girl.

Who eyballed them nervously.

Finally Charles' mouth broke into an entirely different kind of smile.

"Well, based on that display, I'd say we should reintroduce ourselves. Don't you think?"

And he spoke again, quite differently.

 _Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. You may call me Professor X._

 _I'm . . . Siryn._

 _I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Siryn._

And the girl smiled in return.

Well, almost.

* * *

Hank caught Alex in the rec room, lining up a sweet billards shot.

"Banshee."

Alex stopped and looked at him, his face a sudden impenetrable wall.

"Dead."

Hank shrugged.

"Before that."

Alex nodded.

"Okay."

And Hank dropped his bomb.

"What if I told you he was a father?"

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"Then I'd ask you who would ever sleep with him?"

Hank nodded affirmation.

"Somebody. Because his daughter just showed up on our doorstep and she looks just like him."

Alex goggled.

"Shut up."

Hank nodded again.

"She's in the study with Charles now."

Alex dropped the pool cue and made for the door.

Hank considered the dropped stick for the briefest of spans of time.

And then took off after Alex.

* * *

As Hank had correctly surmised, the girl was still with Charles.

Though they had abandoned the wood-paneled confines of the study.

And ventured out onto the side lawn into the sunshine.

Charles always liked the warmth of the bright days now.

As if it was a way to show the new charges they didn't have to hide alone in the shadows any longer.

Presently, Charles and Teresa resided out on the green, Charles talking and gesturing animatedly toward the empty spot where a vine covered metal trellis had once stood.

The one Banshee had melted merely with his voice.

Hank and Alex stood partially hidden, craning their necks to see the pair.

"Man, check out that hair," Alex muttered in disbelief. "Banshee all over again."

Hank nodded even though Alex wasn't paying him any mind.

"She's got sonic waves too. Shattered crystal with hardly any effort at all too."

And he knew they were thinking about the time Sean had accidently taken out an entire plate glass window.

Instead of the glasses on the table.

"What are you guys doing?"

Hank flinched, feeling as though he had been caught doing something bad. Or least, less than mature and gentlemanly.

His beloved Hope, her of the orange toenails, stood a few feet away.

Arms folded across her chest, expression mildly miffed.

"Heyyy," Alex greeted her. "Banshee had a kid. She looks just like him and she's out there with Charles."

This explanation did not sit well with the sticky-fingered mutant medical practitioner of Xavier Manor.

"And you think rubbernecking like she's a zoo animal will make her feel welcome and accepted?" Hope asked retorically.

Hank shrugged, feeling immeasurablely foolish.

And Hope dismissively brushed past them, striding out confidently out onto the lawn.

Approached the pair.

And shook Teresa's hand with a warm smile.

While Hank and Alex remained rooted to the spot.

Staring at the young daughter of their long dead mutant friend.

* * *

 **Teresa Cassidy, aka Siryn. Daughter of Banshee. Yep. But I'm not going comic cannon 'cause it's just more fun to make stuff up.**

 **Plus, yes, yanked this off of another story called 'Blast From the Past'. Also was always meant for this story and didn't have the patience to wait. So finally working it in.**

 **And no, this story is not connected to my Banshee/Trask story either. 'Cause I'm not putting that evil on this story.**

 **And another yep, there's my OC Hope, just putting the guys in their place. She's not a witch or anything, just protective of the lost ones.**

 **And the melted trellis is a reference to a deleted scene in which Banshee screamed so hard that he actually melted the trellis he had previously shattered the glass of. He also screamed so hard that he nearly passed out and Xavier and Moira got physically ill. Really funny scene.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and DinahRay for your reviews!**

 **Thanks also to GladerTributeCamper for adding your support to this story and reading the previous ones as well.**


	8. A Perky Disney Princess and Some Guys

I do not own X-Men anything.

Here we go with more redheads!

Dream On

A Perky Disney Princess and Some Guys

* * *

Hope, wife of Hank McCoy.

Hope, sticky-fingered mutant.

Hope, trauma nurse and general patcher-upper of accident prone mutant teenagers.

Hope, CPR and general 1st Aid teacher of said mutant teenagers in need of necessary triage skills.

Hope, grand master of welcoming committees for Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

She whisked the red haired child of the long lost Banshee away from any and all mutant rubberneckers and their rubbernecking activities.

Instead, embarking upon an exhaustive tour of the newly reopened and refreshened Xavier Manor.

". . . room. My favorite's pool but you might be a foozball fan, I don't know."

Aforementioned girl in tow, practically being dragged along by the bubbly, cheery welcome wagon.

". . . bay. That's my domain and no, I don't have any medicinal marijuana, no matter what Peter or Alex tell you."

The former talking so much and so fast that the later had no opportunity to speak.

". . . kitchen. None of us are what you'd call chefs exactly. And we don't employ one, thanks Chuck, but if you can boil water or make a sandwich, you won't starve."

It was a wonder the newcomer didn't plug her ears from the chatter or call for help, so absolute was her abduction.

Though she did finally stop, clean in the middle of an otherwise empty corridor.

Her self assigned mother hen didn't notice immediately.

". . . have your pick of rooms, especially being a girl. We're kind of outnumbered. . ."

But suddenly found herself quite alone.

"Oh hey, what's wrong? You okay?"

The girl nodded.

"Yeah. Um, listen, you're super nice and all . . ."

Hope nodded encouragingly for her to continue.

"But did you actually _know_ my dad?"

Hope, uncustomarily at a loss for words, just shook her head.

The girl wavered, then continued.

"Well then, no offense, this is great, this whole perky Disney princess thing you got going on here. But can you take me to someone who can tell me about him?"

Hope studied her carefully.

"You mean you actually want to hang out with them right now?"

Teresa nodded eagerly.

Hope took a moment to regroup and then broke into another bright smile.

"Okay then," she restarted, just as friendly and cheery as before. "I've got just the person for you."

And she took her to Hank.

* * *

". . . abilities were fascinating," Hank was saying, somewhat hesitantly to the rapt redhead.

 _Were. Ouch._

He didn't want to hurt her by talking about her deceased father as though he was some laboratory experiment.

Alex, on the other hand, seemed to to be painting the very same person in a rock star light for his eagerly listening daughter.

 _Daughter, fascinating_ , Hank mused.

As Alex rambled on, quite animated and out of his usual taciturn character.

"Yeah, he did this thing once where he shattered an entire plate glass _window_ ," he recounted with an admiring grin.

"Well, he wasn't actually aiming for the window," Hank quickly reassured her. "Just the tumblers on the coffee table."

"Well, maybe," Alex amended. "But it was still really incredible!"

Hank smiled mildly.

"It was rather awe inspiring," he admitted.

Teresa's gaze volleyed back and forth between them like a tennis match, drinking in every syllable, every naunce.

"Did you know he could _fly_?!" Alex plowed on.

The girl grinned tentatively.

"Glide, right? Professor X told me. On parachute wings and sonic waves?"

Alex tossed her an incredulous look.

"Does it matter? I mean, _fly_!"

Hank shook his head and couldn't resist a little sardonic jab.

"I mean, yeah, Sean flew and, uh, all you did was fall, right?"

Alex blanched momentarily and Hank thought he might snark a comment about his monkey feet.

But then the usually reserved mutant relented.

"Actually, yeah. First Hank here saves me, then Banshee catches me jumping off the side of a ship and flies me to safety."

The girl's eyes were saucer-like as she absorbed the tale.

"It was really wild!" Alex concluded enthusiastically.

Then he ran out of words and fell silent.

Reminding them all that the mutant in question was dead and gone forever.

Used up in one of Bolivar Trask's mutant experiments, according to Erik.

And Alex spoke again.

Quieter. Slower.

"I'm sorry you didn't know him. He was a good guy. Never wanted to hurt anybody. Just liked to joke around and have a good time. But when he found something to fight for, he gave it everything he had."

Hank, at a loss for words, simply watched the girl, feeling awkward and unkind for having memories of her dead father.

Memories, when she had nothing.

The girl, alone and so young.

Who ducked her head and hid herself behind a thick curtain of red hair.

And said nothing.

* * *

Teresa Cassidy walked alone around the nearly empty corridors of Xavier Manor, deep in thought.

The people here had known her dad.

And his powers.

And didn't think he was a freak.

They had _liked_ him.

They liked _her_.

Or seemed to.

That took some definite getting used to.

She didn't know what she was going to do about all this yet.

But it was nice to not get yelled at all the time for breaking stuff with her voice.

Suddenly out of nowhere, an older boy appeared before her.

Silver jacket. Black jeans.

Gray hair.

Weird.

"Hey, I'm Peter."

He seemed friendly.

But they _always_ seemed friendly until they started yelling and throwing things.

Something that hadn't happened here yet.

But she had learned distrust the hard way. And it wasn't easy to let go.

Not yet anyway.

"Hey," she replied warily.

The air around the boy shimmered, a breeze ruffled her hair, and two orange Popsicles appeared in his previously empty hands.

"I'm fast," he informed her casually.

The girl's mouth hung ajar. Peter stuck one of the frozen treats in her hand.

"So what can you do?"

She stared at him, unsure.

Then shrieked, cracking the ornate glass mirror hanging on the wall next to them.

To the quickster's credit, he barely flinched.

But after calmly observing his fragmented visage within the reflective glass while absently pressing one finger to a ringing ear, he turned back to her.

And with a dry expression of mild amusement mixed with admiration, lifted his ever present headphones from around his neck.

Slapped them meaningfully over his ears.

And gave her a thumbs-up.

"Cool!"

Tossed out a grin.

And vanished, leaving her red hair ruffling once more in his wake.

She stood alone for a moment, still and blank.

Then she grinned.

Stuck the frozen sugar rush in her mouth.

 _This place might not be so bad._

And went on her way.

* * *

 _Bamfph._

"Hi!"

Teresa Cassidy had always thought she was weird.

 _Bamfph._

"I'm Kurt!"

People had always acted like she was weird.

 _Bamfph._

"They call me Nightcrawler!"

So she had just assumed they were right.

 _Bamfph._

"I'm blue!"

And that she was.

 _Bamfph._

"What's your name?"

Because it really was true.

 _Bamfph._

"Where are you from?"

But she was _nothing_ . . .

 _Bamfph._

"Do you have powers?"

. . . compared to this little blue kid.

 _Bamfph._

"Can I see your powers?"

And his never-ending questions.

 _Bamfph._

"Would you stop that? You're making me dizzy!"

His pointy tail.

 _Bamfph._

"Then _talk_ to me!"

Those crazy two-toed feet.

 _Bamfph._

"I will . . ."

And three-fingered hands.

 _Bamfph._

"If you'll be still!"

And his big, goofy smile.

 _Bamfph._

"Awww, that's no fun!"

But he really was kind of adorable.

 _Bamfph. Bamfph. Bamfph._

Most of the time.

* * *

 **Okay, I have tried six ways to Sunday to figure out how to get Nightcrawler (whom I brilliantly -gar- put in Xavier Manor in the last story) to trapped in a box in 'Apocalypse'. But I just couldn't figure out how (thank you, Bryan Singer, for screwing up my fanfic, ha) so I'm keeping him where he should be in the first place. With other kids his age having fun, okay? I'll work it out in the Apocalypse fic later. *shrugs***

 **Thanks to GladerTributeCamper and brigid1318 for your reviews.**


	9. And the Memory Remains

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

And The Memory Remains

* * *

There were only a few at first.

Here and there, dotted about the mansion.

Mostly in the TV room and game room.

Tacked and taped up alongside Bowie and Farrah.

He took great care to avoid them, avert his eyes from their sight.

Because it hurt. Because he resented them.

And because he wished to have no question at all of his loyalty and devotion to his lovely, amazing wife.

He supposed he should be glad the kids mostly decorated their own rooms.

Because even though he had quite decisively moved on, even gotten married to the real woman of his dreams, the blue skinned creature on the posters would always be a part of him.

Quite literally, forever.

He wanted to stop them, talk to them.

 _Don't put her up on a pedestal, guys. She'll only fall one day. In your eyes. And trust me, it'll hurt you more than it hurts her. Because she doesn't care. She can't afford to._

He tried to avoid the topic with his students.

"Doctor McCoy, did you know her?"

 _Crap._

"Yes."

Excited murmurings.

"Is it true you have the same DNA?"

 _What's your name? Stewart? Well, 'F' for you today, Nosy Nellie._

"Ahem, yes, well, partially. You see, each person has particular DNA markers. For example . . ."

And he'd divert the conversation back to his home base, his safe zone, science.

And it worked.

For the most part.

"Doctor McCoy. I heard you guys, had, like, a thing?"

And he'd refuse to glare daggers at the giggling, starstruck teenagers.

Instead remaining calm, unfluttered.

 _Grrr._

 _No, if I could handle Charles at his worst, I can handle these little pipsqueaks._

"No, you've got some misinformation there. You're thinking of Nurse Hope. She's my thing."

More giggling.

"Oh, her. She's hot, man."

 _Well, yes, she is. Thank you for noticing._

"Quite an astute observation. Perhaps you should inform her of her your opinion before she gives you your next tetanus shot."

And suddenly the kid would be disquieted by the thought of that giant needle.

Wielded by an irate Nurse Hope.

As his buddies chuckled.

And Doctor McCoy would once more reroute them back into the lesson.

* * *

Charles was not quite so easy to derail.

"Another gone that still remains, yes, Hank?"

 _Oh for the love of science, cut the poetry, Charles. And move on with your life._

"I think the children feel she is keeping watch over them."

 _I don't know and I don't care, Charles._

"She is on her own path now. Following her own agenda. Her own mission."

 _I see we're going to continue talking about this then. Great._

"But to a part of me, she will always be the little girl in the kitchen, alone and afraid."

 _Yet another excuse for me not to cook. Thanks, Chuck._

"I have to get to class, Charles."

* * *

Neither was Hope.

"Are you okay?"

Those deep, warm brown eyes. Hers alone. And no one else's.

"Yes, why?"

So full of love and care for him.

"Well, Mystique. She's kind of . . . popping up everywhere lately."

Sincere, open.

"The students admire her. And she did do, and continues to do, a lot of good for mutant kind. Without initiating a global war."

It was one of the many things he loved about her. Hope. Her honesty.

"They shouldn't look up to her, Hank. They should look up to you. She may have won the battle, but you stayed to continue fighting the war."

She wasn't playing a game, pushing buttons, waiting to get her feelings hurt.

"What war?"

She just cared. She just believed. She just loved.

"The war for the children's souls. Their goodness in the face of such an uncertain and frightening existence."

Day in.

"I just . . . teach."

And day out.

"No, you don't, Hank. You serve as an example to them. Of how to live a peaceful, productive life on your own terms and rules."

Because she wanted to. Because she chose to.

"She's fine. Mystique. Her work is great, saving all those mutants. Sending them to our doorstep for safety. But who continues on, shows them how to be when they get here?"

Hank answered truthfully.

"Charles."

She smiled gently, running her fingers through his short, neat hair, mussing it up.

"And you, Hank. You."

His heart swelled and he gathered his exceptional wife up in his arms.

Kissed her. Lovingly, purely, humbly.

Thinking only of her.

And how much she meant to him.

"I love you, Hope."

"I love you, Hank."

* * *

The past seemed darker, heavier, closer in the wee hours. When everything seemed to shrink down to a point.

 _"I did not to_ steal _her from you, Charles. She was not a possession."_

A hard swallow.

"I _understand_ that. Intellectually. But she was my sister, Erik. Or I thought she was."

A moment of silence, as if gathering patience.

 _"I only wanted her to be free, Charles. Free to be the powerful mutant she could become. Not hiding in the shadows. Free."_

A clench of the jaw.

"Free enough to shoot you in the neck and kick you in the head, Erik?"

A pause.

 _"I only ever encouraged her to make her own decisions. And she always did."_

An opening and closing of the mouth. Then opening again.

The conversation slowly becoming more heated.

At least on one side.

"Such as the decision to leave the safety of her home and friends? Abandon them? They needed her. I needed her."

An maddeningly calm response.

 _"It was never about you at all, Charles. It was about her. And she was released by you. On the beach. Or have you forgotten?"_

No response, no retort.

Because there was none to be given.

Because it was all true.

Eric Lensherr had never lied, never glossed over the truth.

He had always been straightforward regarding his intents and purposes.

And when those intents and purposes had changed, he had been honest about that as well.

And so for once, Charles Xavier was the sullen presence on the other end of the line.

Until he spoke the only words he could.

"I don't think there's anything more I have to say to you tonight, Erik. But we will speak again, I am sure."

 _"Yes, we will, old friend."_

* * *

 **So not exactly grown into the wise, old prof we all revere, eh? Oh well, there's still time.**

 **If I know a certain reader/friend on this site, this chapter should send her into a tizzy or rage. And you know, that's okay. Have been watching the first X-Men trilogy with my eldest lately and realized how much I missed Rebecca Romijn! Wow, she was on a whole other level!**

 **Anyway, thanks to loyal readers GladerTributeCamper, DinahRay, and brigid1318 for your reviews!**


	10. Up the Down Staircase

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Up the Down Staircase

* * *

"May I ask, Teresa, how did your parents meet?"

Of course the professor would want to know more about her.

Made sense.

She just didn't want to say.

So the girl in question didn't answer immediately. She was sifting through all the possible answers she could fabricate.

 _Oh, they were high school sweethearts. She understood him like no other. Didn't care if he was weird or anything. First love._

 _Cousins. Like Poe and his woman. Except not so icky. It was a torrid love affair. The family thought it was scandalous. Sent her off to a convent. He promised to come for her, rescue her._

 _Saved her from some thugs actually. They fell madly in love. Promised never to leave each other's side. Until you guys took him._

But then she opened her mouth and the truth just fell out of it.

"One night stand at a friend's party. When she found out she was pregnant, she hid it from her parents and then ran away to her sister's and made her promise to raise me."

She paused, picking at her fingernails.

"I don't think he ever knew about me at all."

Charles felt a sweeping sadness for her.

He searched for the right words. Having known Banshee only a short time, he couldn't be sure of the young man's possible actions.

But he felt he had to try.

"It may not help, Teresa, but I don't think he did know about you. Because if he had, he would have been there for you. I think he would have done everything he could to be a part of your life."

She didn't respond right away.

Her mom and dad had been good parents. Kind, loving.

She hadn't been abused or neglected.

It was only when she developed her powers had she been told the truth.

Not out of cruelty but confusion and concern. And a desire to understand.

She had been shocked.

Auntie Angela, her mother?

Wild child of the sixties?

Married with two kids? Part of the Ruritan committee?

No way.

Way.

She had gone to her, drug the sordid story out of her.

Her father.

Sean Cassidy.

Weird guy. But cute. Red, unruly hair. Freckles.

Smirky, joking personality.

One night stand.

So Teresa had gone to his parents.

Lied about who she was.

The mom had seemed suspicious.

Who wouldn't, with her freckles and red hair.

But had said nothing of it.

He had gone off with some guy named Xavier.

To some special school in upstate New York.

Never come home.

Disappeared.

Did she know where he was?

No, of course not.

And so she had set off to find this Xavier guy and get some answers.

And here she was, telling her life's story to him.

All because he didn't hate her for having powers.

She bit her lip, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

And waited.

Charles Xavier spoke without opening his mouth.

 _I am truly sorry for your unhappiness, Teresa._

 _Yeah._

 _Sometimes trials and tribulations can serve to make us stronger people._

Sure, sure. That was a good enough reason.

But not really.

 _If you want to, you can have a place here. You can be accepted and have mutant family of sorts._

She looked at him.

And he smiled.

And she wanted to smile back, she truly did.

So she tried.

And let him continue to teach her how to play chess.

* * *

Xavier lawn was in chaos.

And Teresa was under attack.

They were closing in on all sides.

Ink divebombed her from the left as Alex threw a red ring at her from the right.

She tossed the bald, tattooed, flying guy back with a well-aimed shriek and dodged the ring, rolling back to her feet relatively steadily.

Adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, senses heightened.

Feeling powerful and strong.

Proud and excited at that moment to be exactly what she was.

 _Yes. This what it should feel like. This what it should_ be _like._

Only to have her entire body freeze, feeling like it was coccooned head to toe in a muslin wrap.

Back from the immediate fray, she saw Chloe smiling thinly.

Right before that grin disappeared and she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

A rictus of pain pinching her young face.

Teresa smiled, knowing Max was doing his duty somewhere out of her line of sight.

The only one she had to worry about now was . . .

"Tag."

And she turned to face Peter, standing calmly, having just tapped her on the shoulder.

She glared at him as all the action around her came to a screeching halt.

And a long, toady tongue wrapped itself around Peter's outstretched wrist.

He looked down in mild distaste.

Then to the side at the hunched mutant now connected to him via an impossibly long, slimey appendage.

"I got her, man. It's over."

Mort grinned through his goggles anyway.

Any capture of the Quicksilver at all was a truimph.

Peter turned back to Teresa, who was still glaring.

"You shouldn't even really be playing," she protested. "Nobody can beat you. It's not _fair_!"

He grinned.

"Well, that's part of the challenge, isn't it?"

And back at Morty, still attached to him by the tongue.

"Do you mind?"

Morty released and reeled back in.

Peter wiped his arm calmly.

"It's cool but it's disgusting."

Then as Morty snickered, he zipped away, up to the roof. Where Hank had been observing the entire simulation and taking copious notes.

 _This is fantastic. This could really be fantastic._

And wishing feverently wishing Banshee could be here to take part in this melee.

 _We could have compounded the effectiveness of Sean's sonic waves by having Peter run with him at superspeed._

He glanced down at the melee of mutants, now chatting and patting each other on the backs.

Considered the redhaired daughter of Banshee.

 _Hmm, if she gets stronger, I wonder if Teresa would consider a little side training with Peter. Hmm . . ._

Peter who interrupted Hank's thoughts with his own question.

"So, Science Man, whaddya say?"

Hank gestured calmly with his pencil.

"I think we need to put out the fire on that tree before Hope and Charles get back from Polo practice."

Peter snorted dryly before tossing out his snark.

"You really need to get that woman of yours under control, man."

Hank tossed him a small smile.

"Now why would I want to do a thing like that?"

* * *

The battle roughened mutants sat in the warm sun, downing Maximoff-procured Popsicles.

Transistor turned way up.

"So goodbye yellow brick road, where the dogs of society howl . . ."

"Oh my god, will you _please_ turn this crap off?" Alex admonished Hank.

Who shrugged mildly and said nothing.

"What would you prefer?" Chloe jumped in. "'Dancing Queen'?"

Max sitting near her, having taken the ice pop reprieve to apologize for sickening her stomach, now chuckled quietly.

And Chloe earlier having brushed off his apology all in the name of battle preparation.

Now cozied up to a slightly ruffled Ink.

"Oooh, how about 'The Way We Were'?" she cooed obnoxiously at Alex as her shy boyfriend absently stroked her hair.

Having received an apology from Teresa from nearly shrieking him out of the sky.

So, all in all, apologies and Popsicles all around.

And attacks on Alex's musical preferences.

"All right, all right, listen to crap if you want. See if I care."

The lighthearted banter drifted away and they let it.

As they sat.

Quiet. Calm. Content.

Mutant children resting from playing at war.

Mutant.

Children.

Playing.

* * *

There was something not quite right about the grounds of Xavier Manor.

Something Charles Xavier could not put his finger on.

The cup of tea cooling on the patio table sat undrunk.

"Is the grass a bit . . . more . . . charred than usual, Hank?"

Hank shrugged noncommittally.

"What about that tree? Has it always looked so . . . ashy?"

Hank took a deep sip of his cup of heavily sugar-laced joe.

And said nothing.

"Hank?"

* * *

 **Poor Charles, heh heh. Me thinks Hank needs to get that sim room up and running. And soon.**

 **Once again, pretty sure this is not cannon. Nor is it meant to be. Just me writing.**

 **And the Banshee/Quicksilver comment comes from GladerTributeCamper's curious brain. Cool, huh?**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, and GladerTributeCamper for the reviews.**

 **Thanks also to woahtherePotter and Mjolnir's might for adding your support to the story.**


	11. Rollin' and Skimmin' Stones

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Rollin' and Skimmin' Stones

* * *

Alex Summers stared blankly at the pinball machine before him.

Playing automatically, reflexes zeroed in on the movements of the little metal orb.

The levers and dials that clicked and whirred and moved.

Spun and dinged and flashed with blinking lights.

It was hypnotic, entrancing.

It dazed and relaxed him enough to let his mind wander.

Wander back.

Back, back.

Back to a more hopeful time.

Back to when they were young and naiive.

Thinking they could do something, help someone.

Have some sort of positive affect.

Him standing at a pinball machine similar to the one before him now.

Him and Darwin.

Darwin watching him, astounded at his high score.

Not understanding that up until that time, pinball had been Alex's comfort, his solace, his escape from his freakish existence.

Until the day when he had been pushed too far and could not escape.

Had hurt people.

And rightfully been shut away.

And then there had Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr and all their mutants.

Goofball Sean Cassidy. The fascinating Darwin.

Hot babes, Raven and Angel.

Bigfoot and awkward Hank McCoy.

Most of them gone now.

Replaced by others who were fine in their own right.

But just didn't understand. Not truly.

He'd tried, he really had.

To keep Angel from going off with smooth talker Sebastian Shaw.

His South American whirlwind and the teleporting red-skinned devil.

He had tried, him and Darwin.

And he had failed.

And Darwin had died.

Holding out his hand as if to say, ' _no, no, don't blame yourself, man'_.

But how could he not, after how it had gone down?

That was why it had been easier to escape off to Vietnam when he'd been drafted.

Escape off _to_ Vietnam.

Insane logic. But that's how desperate he had been to get away from those mutants who knew what he had done.

Had witnessed it, powerless to help, powerless as him to stop it.

Darwin burned alive from the inside out, all his adaptive powers inexplicably unable to save him.

After that, they'd continued to fight.

Against Shaw.

The idiotic, trigger-happy humans.

And then, damnit all, Eric'd gone all rogue.

Taken Shaw's place as the batcrap crazy dangerous nutjob king of the mutants.

Taken Raven and Angel and Shaw's previous minions.

And left Charles bleeding and paralyzed on the beach.

So it hadn't helped at all.

Running off to Vietnam hadn't either.

It had only gotten him shipped off to Saigon, cast as a freak all over again.

Along with the others.

Until Raven, Mystique, whatever she insisted on calling herself, showed up and raised all kinds of hell.

Rescuing them all. Getting them on a plane.

Before running off to raise all kinds of more hell.

And then by this and that, he'd ended up back here.

Xavier Manor.

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Home?

No.

Sanctuary?

Maybe.

Something anyway.

And mostly it was okay.

New faces, new names, new abilities of people that forced him to reach outside himself toward them.

Which was a good thing, really.

They'd even helped each other at times, supported each other through turmoil and need.

Celebrated together.

Laughed together.

Felt accepted and befriended.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it still became too much.

And despondency took him over.

And he withdrew from all of it.

Into himself and the abiding darkness there.

Refusing to let any of the others draw him out.

Until he slowly rose back out of it in his own time and into the world as it was yet again.

Times like now.

So he ignored all the others in the rec room, ignored their faces, their voices.

Ignore their comings and goings.

The chatter of meaningless voices. The clatter of the billards.

And let the pinball machine fill his vision, his auditory senses.

Let it zombify him while he wandered in the wasteland of the ones he had failed to save and lost.

". . . it painted black. Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts . . ."

Yes, ignore even the Rolling Stones. Who hid their darkly honest lyrics behind twangy, rush-beat rhythm and an oddly appealing (at least to the ladies) dancing, crooning frontman.

". . . facing up when your whole world is black . . ."

A rustle of air. A presence at his elbow. A cool, calm voice.

"Good beat and all, but a little dark, don't you think, Rings?"

Peter Maximoff. Irritating silver-haired speedster.

Could annoy just about anybody in the mansion into or out of anything he wanted, given enough time and words.

Alex considered him his friend.

But right now he ignored him too.

Another rustle of air and the Stones ceased their British yammerings.

"Maybe something a bit less, you know, suicidal?"

Ignore, ignore.

And a new tune filled the air.

 _Oh crap, not this. Anything but this._

". . . holdin' hands and skimmin' stones . . ."

So he ignored that too.

And the slowly rhymthic movements evolving throughout the room.

Suddenly, the pinball machine went dark, the ball wandering aimlessly within, unsmacked and unpummeled.

Alex blinked, lost and confused.

Until Peter once more spoke just behind him.

"Alright, Depression Mutant Man, let it go."

Alex turned on him angrily.

"What the _hell_ , man?!"

The black and silver-clad young man remained unruffled.

"What? You're like a black _hole_ , man. Get off it. Have some _fun_."

And spun forward Kat, Alex's telekinetic partner in anger and destruction.

She, uncharacteristically bright eyed and grinning . . .

 _What the hell's in those Popsicles anyway?_

. . . grabbed his hands and started some weird, herky-jerky gyration that couldn't possibly be dancing.

Peter grinned and zipped off to spin Chloe away from an amused Ink. Do some goofy little jive. And spin her right back, dizzy and giggling.

It was then Alex caught sight of their newest society-abandoning mutant.

Teresa Cassidy.

Banshee's daughter.

Dead Banshee's daughter.

Flashing him right back to those thoughts of darkness he'd just been quagmired in.

Before Kat suddenly leaned forward and smooched his cheek.

He blinked at her and she winked, a slightly embarrassed expression on her grinning face.

And he glanced back to Teresa.

Now laughing and dancing with the avid, blue skinned kid teleporter Kurt Wagner.

Also laughing, tail waving in time to the Elton John contrived musical cacophony.

Then over their shoulders to the previously unseen, wheelchaired Charles Xavier.

Nodding his head appreciatively.

At Peter Maximoff.

Who rakishly winked back in response.

 _Conspiracy_ , Alex thought vaguely. _You people are just all up in a conspiracy._

"Laaaaaaaaa . . ."

 _Oh . . . what the hell._

And started spinning a delighted Kat around.

"Thought you didn't _like_ Elton John," she teased as she twirled.

He relinquished a small smile.

"Oh come on, really?" he retorted. "Who doesn't like Elton?"

And spun her faster to quit her talking.

"Well, some of it anyway."

Around and around.

". . . to the Crocodile Rock . . ."

* * *

 **Flashmob! Ha, sorry, but I've always wanted to do that ;)**

 **O** **kay, so that's the last of the old stuff from the Teresa story.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, and GladerTributeCamper for continuing to review. :)**

 **Thanks also to Dreams of Summertime for adding your support to the story.**


	12. Whaaat?

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Whaaat?

* * *

Lots of things were going down during the long year of 1977.

Some events were globally significant.

The return of the Panama Canal back to Panama. A noble enough surrender even though the darn thing never technically moved in the first place. More of a symbolic thing. And an economical thing.

To go into effect in the year 2000.

"Uh, so . . ."

"Yeah?"

"What's the _point_ , man?"

"Well . . . see they . . . well, uh . . . I really don't know."

"Uh huh."

Gandhi's wife attempting to resign from office.

"Yeah, she was all like, 'hey man, the crisis is all over so I'm cool'. I mean, what politician does that, man?"

"Who's Gandhi?"

"Are you freakin' _kidding_ me?"

"What?"

The Alaskan Pipeline chugged oil into the United States, allowing motorists to stop fighting over gas station fuel.

"Professor, how can we just stand idly by and allow the capitalists of this nation to destroy the wild beauty of Alaska just to satisfy their own greed and power?"

"Oh well, uh, I suppose-"

"Oh hey, did you see ChaChi on 'Happy Days' last night, Teri?"

"Yes! Oh my gosh . . ."

Some events were only important to some.

Elvis Presley and his infamous bathroom demise.

"Oh my god, Jessica, I am _heartbroken_! I mean, he was so beautiful and his songs were so deep and now he's just _gone_ , you know?"

"No."

" _What?"_

The advent of the Apple II computer.

A noble advancement to be sure. Though Hank McCoy's less mature side suspected he had been shafted by not being gifted a completely free one.

 _Helped save the planet from world domination from Magneto and the Sentinels. Come on, is the newest house-sized technology too much to ask for?_

A band by the unlikely name of the Sex Pistols both getting sacked and lauded for their lyrical muse and personal angst.

"It's all about the _music_ , man. It holds the entire world together. Without it . . . life is meaningless."

"Are you stoned again?"

"What? No, seriously, I mean . . . okay, well, yeah, maybe just a little."

* * *

And of course, there was Star Wars in May.

Most of the residents of Xavier Manor went to see it.

Some of them liked it.

"Yeah and then Luke Starwalker-"

"No, man, _Sky_ walker."

"Yeah, that's what I said, Skywalker. He comes in and he's all like 'I'm here to rescue you' . . ."

Some of them really liked it.

"Oh man, when Vader took down Obi-Wan, I _freaked_ , man, I mean that was his apprentice . . ."

"Shut up, man, I haven't seen it yet!"

" _What?!_ "

Some of them really _really_ liked it.

"Hey, man, did you see that chick's boobies? They were a great set of boobies and I mean no bra or noth-"

"What? Peter, shut up, I'm a _girl_ -"

"I know, man, that's how I know you know a good set of boobies when you see them-"

"Oh my god, Peter, please stop talking!"

"What?"

* * *

And then there was Nightcrawler.

There wasn't a student or teacher in Xavier Manor he wouldn't talk about Star Wars to.

He even talked to the people of Xavier Manor who went unnoticed by most.

Such as Madeline Hamford, the housekeeper.

Hired by Charles Xavier to help with the day to day upkeep of Xavier Manor beyond the students' assigned chores.

And because she was a mutant like them.

"It was incredible, Ms. Ham! He just swung her across . . ."

The blue-skinned child bamfphed from one side of the smiling older lady to the other.

" . . . on a rope so thin it looked like the tooth floss the Professor makes me use!"

So excited he didn't pay attention to where he was going.

" . . . and the Stormtroopers kept shooting and shooting, I don't know how they mis-"

Knocking over a large Ming Dynasty vase dusted only minutes before.

" -oh! I'm sorry!"

He cringed at the broken pottery, Stars Wars suddenly forgotten in lieu of the destruction to the Professor's property.

"Oh, I wish the Force was real . . ."

Well, maybe not _entirely_ forgotten. He was, after all, in the midst of a very real life relatable situation requiring the lamenting of a circumstance where the Force would have actually been quite useful.

". . . I could have stopped that!"

The older woman, unruffled as ever, placed a comforting hand upon his head, unperturbed by his whipping blue tail and sulfur bamfphing omissions.

"Could you now?"

And with an easy wave of her dark hand, reversed the entire process.

In slow motion, all pieces of the vase lifted into the air, reassembling themselves back together perfectly without a seam or a crack.

And set itself slowly back on its stand, none the worse for wear.

Kurt was dumbfounded.

He stared at her. Mouth ajar, hyperactive bamfphing tendencies temporarily stilled.

"Did you . . . how did you . . ."

She grinned slyly, her wrinkled eyes alight with mischief.

"I used the _Mutant_ Force."

His eyes grew even bigger.

"You _did_?!"

With another wave of her hand, the vase again dashed itself to the floor to shatter into a million pieces.

Kurt gasped again then clapped as the ancient pottery reversed itself once more to reassemble and sit back its original spot for the final time.

"You can reverse _time_!"

The old lady in the shapeless shift shook her grey-bunned head.

"No, dear. I fix things. Just like a grandma is supposed to do."

Kurt's raucous little boy cackle echoed joyfully after him as he smooched her cheek.

"Thanks, Ms. Ham!"

And proceeded to bamfph here and there and everywhere, skirting off down the hall toward the kitchen for a snack.

"What a sweet boy," the old mutant commented to herself. "Unfortunate aroma though."

And went quietly on about her household duties.

* * *

 **Silly, fun little transitional chapter. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 for your review!**


	13. That Day

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

That Day

* * *

That spring day in 1978 had started out quite promising.

Mind blowing impromptu morning sex tended to have that effect on him.

And her as well, it seemed.

And when they had _finally_ bid farewell, Hank had seen nothing but joy and happiness in their future.

It just didn't seem possible for there to be anything else on the horizon for them.

Quite illogical and improbable thinking for a genius scientist such as Hank McCoy.

Especially the Hank McCoy who had been caught up in the chaos of the Paris Peace Accords only a few years prior.

That Hank would never have dreamed that this hopeful, Hope-with Hank could exist.

Especially on such an elevated level.

But everyone had their moments.

And he decided to simply enjoy his.

It was a good thing he did.

Because it was the last he would have for a very long time.

* * *

In his lab, having dismissed his class just a little early to go out and enjoy the budding spring sunshine.

Humming a little of this and a little of that as he worked.

Dreamed.

Envisioned.

Floated.

And then the door burst open.

In such a great mood that not even the abrupt intrusion . . .

 _Knock, knock, knocking not on my door . . ._

. . . could cause a dent in his lighthearted mood.

Until he turned.

And saw her.

Chloe. Standing there.

Tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mouth hanging open, filled with words she didn't want to speak.

His brow furrowed.

 _Grrr . . ._

As the Beast grumbled a low warning, a premonition.

Which Hank reflexively pushed away before he could even acknowledge it.

"Chloe? What- "

She lurched forward, seeking his form. Breathing and crying and talking in hitching little, almost incoherent gasps of broken syllables.

"Oh Hank . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

 _Nope._

"It's awful . . ."

 _Nope._

"She was just walking . . ."

 _No._

". . . down the street . . ."

 ** _No._**

". . . and . . ."

 _Oh god._

* * *

". . . swelling on the brain, Mr. McCoy. The crushed sternum is causing her considerable difficulty breathing and stressing her heart to beat. Her liver and spleen have suffered major contusions and lacerations, causing poisons to leak into her body . . ."

The doctor continued solemnly talking and Hank let him, unable to stop the verbal flow of physical brutalities inflicted upon his wife's body at the time of collision.

". . . stop her internal bleeding. But it's only a matter of time."

The doctor did stop then and it took Hank a few moments to realize and respond to it.

He spoke the only words he could.

"I want to see her."

* * *

She had always been smaller than him.

More delicate. More vulnerable.

But also stronger than she looked. More fiery.

Braver.

More everything.

Just right to him in every possible way.

But now, as he gazed upon her in that hospital bed, he saw her diminished in a way he struggled to process.

Enveloped in bandages, wrappings, and ointments.

Tubes and hoses and machinery breathing for her, living for her.

Her and her broken, mangled body.

That body that only that morning he had joyously made passionate, all-consuming love to.

His wife.

His Hope.

Pinned, she had been pinned.

Between a telephone pole and a car.

A car driven by a drunk driver.

A human drunk driver.

Who probably wasn't hurt at all.

While Hope . . .

 _Oh Hope. Oh, no._

. . . fought for every second of life she painfully endured from that moment to this.

The vision of her in the hospital bed filled his mind, the steady beeping of the heart monitor and shushing of the ventilator deafening him.

Then his body responded on a molecular level.

And everything ground to a screaming halt.

He thought he would die.

Convinced his heart had stopped, his neurons had ceased firing.

He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Unable to breathe.

Unable to save her.

 _We were talking about having kids just yesterday._

 _I was afraid they would inherit my mutations and be shunned by society._

 _She was confident, so confident just like always, that everything would work out okay._

 _I . . . I was thinking I just might say yes._

He could have stood there for days, weeks, months, years.

Stood there and never moved.

Until he did.

"Hope," he murmured, unaware he had even spoken. "No . . ."

And he staggered to her side, sank to his knees.

And wept there beside his wife.

* * *

They made him leave to work on her contusions, her open wounds, her broken bones.

Check her catheter, re-adjust her breathing tube.

That was a mistake.

He shambled out in the hall.

Found Alex, Charles, and Peter situated out of the way against the off white wall, holding white cups of hospital coffee sludge in their hands.

Alex saw him first, straightened up.

"Hey, man. You o-"

His voice faded out as he took in Hank's ghost white face, realized how stupid the question really was.

And Hank kept moving, zombie-like, past them. As if they themselves were but only hazy apparitions in his own private circle of Hell.

"Hank . . ."

This time Charles. As if he could possibly have anything to say to ease suffocating pain slowly squeezing Hank's core to dust within his numb body.

He rounded a corner, saw the policemen speaking to a shambling mess of a blobby man with a large bandage affixed to his graying head.

And just knew.

His speed increased, legs scissoring mindlessly.

". . . again, sir, your version of the events leading up to the . . ."

Until he reached the man, the monster, the _bastard_ who had drunkenly driven his car into Hank's wife only hours before.

In the last few feet, he morphed into the Beast faster and violently than ever before in his life.

A roar tearing from his anguished throat.

Fabric ripping apart at the seams as his muscles swelled and flexed, claws slicing out of his flesh.

" _You_! You did this to her!"

And as the terrified man drunkenly swayed away from the blue-furred mutant, Hank froze.

The hands of Alex and Peter gripping his upper arms in a futile effort to stop certain disaster.

The policemen, their hands reaching for their holstered revolvers.

And Hank, Hank McCoy, Henry Philip McCoy, gentleman scientist and peacekeeper, caught midsnarl in a terrifying visage of feral rage.

And Charles Xavier, concentrating all his power on the force of Hank's pain.

And the humans caught in the impending maelstrom of it.

He reached out with his mind to the inebriated man who had effectively murdered an innocent woman.

 _Good afternoon, sir._

And strove to show his better side.

 _Oh my god, what the hell's happening? Who is that mutant freak?!_

It wasn't easy.

 _That mutant freak, as you so crudely put it, is the husband of the woman you drove into today._

 _Oh my god, oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Please, please, tell him I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it! It was my sister's birthday and we just went out for a few drinks and-_

 _Stop. Stop talking now. Or I let him go._

Psychic silence.

Charles gathered himself, compartmentalized his rage against this useless, slobbering creature who had stolen their light.

 _We are relatively certain his wife is going to die at any time now. And absolutely certain that it is your fault._

Charles gathered his thoughts, feeling his dear friend struggling against the confines of the mind control necessary to keep this from escalating out of control.

 _Now listen to me very carefully. This man is not a blue, furry beast. That vision is only a hallucination of your own inebriation. He is human, he is distraught. You are scared, remorseful, and filled with sincere guilt and regret._

All Charles wanted to do was kill him. Or have him kill himself.

He had killed Hope.

He had possibly ruined Hank forever.

He was worthless. A worthless, dangerous human.

The kind Erik would have taken great pleasure in slowly killing.

But Charles Xavier knew he could do better than have the man kill himself.

Killing himself would be too easy, accomplish nothing.

 _You will serve whatever incarceration the judge degrees without argument or complaint. You will never again touch alcohol for the rest of your life because the mere thought, the mere sight, the mere smell of it, will make you violently ill and mentally distraught._

 _You will never approach, talk to, or contact this man in your entire life. You will learn to live with what you have done and you will use this experience to teach others about the dangers of drunk driving. You will do so without benefit allowed to yourself._

Charles stopped, waited, then realized the man's consciousness was still psychically frozen.

 _You may speak._

 _Yes, yes, sir. I'm sorry. Please . . . tell him I'm sorry._

 _I will. I am going to remove this man and his associates from this area now. I have communicated the necessary information to these law enforcement officers. You will speak nothing of this to them nor anyone else your entire life. You will believe it was part of your hallucinations._

 _Yes, yes, sir. Please . . . please tell him I am sorry._

And then Charles guided Alex, Peter, and Hank went back the way they had come.

Charles soothed Hank's mind enough so the man could take his serum, revert himself back to human form.

And attend himself to the only important task in the world for him.

Caring for and loving his dying wife.

* * *

 **Alright, yeah, we're doing this and I hope you can understand and forgive me.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and GladerTributeCamper for your previous reviews. :)**


	14. Reaching Out

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Reaching Out

* * *

Xavier Manor was a chaos of emotion.

Quiet and still outwardly.

Yet inside, the students were all struggling to process the awful tragedy that had befallen Nurse Hope.

There wasn't one of them that didn't know her, love her, respect and appreciate her. No matter how they had sometimes acted to the contrary.

The physicians attending her had requested only immediate family be allowed in the ICU for fear of further infection.

Her parents had come and stayed, hollow-eyed and numb with grief and shock.

Her hog-riding grandmother there in spirit, having died several years earlier.

Not from a motorcycle accident or a misaim with the knitting needles but old age.

Beyond that, no one was allowed in to see the woman so many of them loved.

They argued, they cried, they pleaded with Professor X to pull some strings, call in some favors.

Anything to see her and tell her they loved her.

He, somehow suppressing his own tidal waves of emotion, upheld the medical professionals' rules.

Wishing to use his telepathy to take away the sorrow of the hour, agony of the day, the uncertainty of the future.

Their anguish and their pain.

And knowing deep in his heart, that helping them learn to deal with and face the tragedies of life rather than stuff them away was the more constructive, more beneficial pursuit.

Though it hurt like hell.

So they, the children of Xavier Manor, sent balloons and flowers, wrote cards, and drew pictures for Nurse Hope.

They talked about her. The things she had said. The things she had done. The smiles. The reprimands. The lessons.

The _life_.

And some of them, desiring more than just memories, were caught sneaking out of the Manor to get to their sticky-fingered teacher/nurse/friend.

One young man made it further than the others.

"Ink, where are you going?"

The pseudo-mutant with the power to heal at cost to himself tattooed into his right hand, stopped, head down.

"I'm going to help Hope, Professor."

Charles Xavier rolled smoothly along the perimeter of the quietly splashing fountain.

"No, Ink. I cannot let you do that."

The moonlight shone upon the boy's smooth, tattooed head.

"I can heal her, Professor. I can save her."

Charles shook his head sadly and kept his voice firm.

"No, Ink. Her injuries are . . . too severe, too many. The effort would kill you. And fail to save her."

The tattooed hands clenched into trembling fists.

"No. I'm stronger now. I can do it."

Charles reached him.

"Ink, the doctors say she is brain dead. You cannot heal that, no matter how powerful you are. And to die trying would be a waste of your life. And would not bring back hers."

Ink's smooth face pinched as he struggled to contain himself.

"No . . . no . . . you're just saying that to keep me from trying."

Charles shook his head again, tears threatening to overwhelm him.

"No, Ink, I am not. I would not lie to you. Hank and her parents are discussing now the decision to let her go."

The young man who had once been Eric Gitter stood again lost and full of rage in an unjust, cruel world.

"If you want to help, Ink, go back inside. Comfort Chloe, look after the children, let them know they are not alone in this world."

Ink, tears shining in his eyes, looked back toward the looming hulk of Xavier Manor.

"I don't know how to do that, Professor."

In truth, neither did the mighty and wise Charles Xavier. Not fully. Not to the extent that was needed now.

So he just petitioned with his full heart.

"Start by just coming back inside with me, Ink. We'll figure it out together. All of us. Please."

So Ink tried.

* * *

"Professor, why did this happen to Hope? Did she do something bad?"

The lump that had just begun to ease reformed itself with a vengeance in Charles Xavier's throat as he gazed at the scrawny, blue skinned boy with the tail.

"No, Kurt. She did nothing to deserve what has happened to her."

The child shifted his two-toed feet, studying them intently.

They were alone in the study.

"I've been in my sanctuary all afternoon praying for her."

It was true. The ten year old teleporter still smelt of incense and wood paneling.

"I prayed to the Holy Mother to heal her because Hope heals us when we are hurt. Over and over I said the prayer. I really meant it too. The sisters said you really had to mean it and believe when you prayed. I really, really meant it, Professor."

Then he did something he hadn't done in a very long time.

He bamfphed himself right on Charles' lap.

He seemed to shrink as he did so. Appeared younger, smaller, more vulnerable than his years.

"Why hasn't the Holy Mother healed her, Professor? Have I not prayed hard enough?"

Little sore spots stood out on Kurt's fingerpads from his constant rubbing of his rosary beads.

Charles felt entirely at a loss to adequately answer the boy's question.

"I don't know, Kurt. Maybe there is a reason for this to be happening. I really don't know."

Kurt Wagner's little face crumpled as he threw his arms around Charles Xavier's neck, wailing and sobbing.

His German accent, thickened by distress and grief, made his words nearly unintelligible.

"I don't want Hope to die, Professor! I love her! She's always so nice to me!"

Charles' own tears began to flow as he embraced the inconsolable child.

"I know, Kurt, I know. I love her too."

The boy's tears grew harsh and his breath hitched in angry little gasps.

"I'll hate God forever if she dies! I'll destroy my sanctuary! I'll never talk to Him again!"

Charles Xavier did not believe. Not in anything specific. He had never found any particular reason to.

But Kurt, little Kurt, he had always believed.

Formative years in a convent, surrounded by nuns, mutant and human, he had been taught to believe.

And Charles did not wish to see that tiny little soul crushed to pieces so early in life.

Gulping back his own grief, Charles drew the boy back away from him.

Wishing fervently that he knew the right words to say to make this all better.

"No, Kurt, please. Don't throw your faith away. It is so very important. It can carry you through the darkest of times."

Kurt sniffled, peering weepily at his mentor.

"Darker than this?"

Charles nodded.

"Yes, darker than this."

Then he had a thought.

"What would Hope want you to do, Kurt?"

The boy's black eyes were depthless wellpools of grief.

"Be good."

Charles nodded.

"And?"

Kurt thought.

"Believe."

Another nod.

"And?"

Kurt's brow furrowed.

"Help others."

Charles smiled.

"Your faith helps you do all those things, yes?"

The child rubbed his eyes, nodding.

"And Hope."

Charles took a deep breath.

"So carry both of them in your heart, Kurt. Carry them both no matter what happens."

Kurt nodded.

And stayed where he was a little while longer.

Charles let him.

* * *

The professor had said nobody was to leave the school. Said they all needed to stick together and take care of each other for now.

Said that the doctors needed space and time to do what they could for her.

And that the risk of infection was too great.

But Peter Maximoff never really was one for following rules.

And when he wanted, nobody was quick enough to stop him.

Ink gave it a good effort.

But Ink didn't have superspeed tattooed on his feet.

 _Should have. That'd be cool._

So it was Peter Maximoff and Peter Maximoff alone that zipped unseen into the hospital.

Whizzed into and out of the gift shop. Left a few bills on the counter for a bemused cashier.

Took the stairs because the elevator was too slow and he wasn't in the mood to eff around.

Traced his finger down the list at the nurse's station.

Moved past an older man, slouched dejectedly outside the room, waiting his turn to sit and keep the death knell.

And into the scrubbed hospital room reeking of antiseptic and approaching death.

He saw Hank McCoy hunched on a hard molded plastic chair, red-rimmed eyes aglaze with shock and grief.

An older woman, bearing similar features to the younger one in the bed, perched forlorn and empty in the only other chair in the room.

Heart monitor mid-beep, ventilator mid-shoosh. Clock on the wall mid-tick.

Peter stopped at her side, looking down at the lifeless form in the bed . . .

 _I should have been there with you. I would have seen it coming, zipped you out of the way, let him wrap himself around the telephone pole instead of you. I'm sorry, Hope._

. . . and swallowed down a lump in his throat.

He took his offering out of its safe place inside his jacket. Set it down on the small bedside table carefully.

Cast one more longing, sorrowful gaze down at the girl who had never given him a single inch in all his time at Xavier Manor.

Set his jaw.

And kept going.

Kept running.

Kept moving.

Leaving behind a simply etched glass vase.

And within it a delicate, velvety-pedaled, yellow rose.

Shorn entirely of its thorns.

* * *

 **Okay, this is not arrogance or anything. But honestly, the part with Kurt and Charles, I almost started crying as I was writing it.**

 **Anyway *proffers tissue*, everybody ok?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, GladerTributeCamper, and Emily for your reviews. I know this isn't easy to read.**

 **I am also not saying God does not care or listen. I'm just writing from the confused perspective of a child.**


	15. Paint It Black

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Paint it Black

* * *

It shouldn't have been a beautiful, tender, spring day when Hank McCoy buried his wife.

It should have been dark, heavy. Full of thick, oppressive clouds.

The skies should have poured down grey sheets of mournful tears and the sun should have hidden its glowing face in despair.

There should have been no colors to behold or warmth in the world at all.

The green of the grass, the blue of the sky, the yellow daffodils in the distant field.

They all should have darkened and faded their glory in shame, in regret, in sorrow at the passing of such a loving, sublime woman.

But none of those things happened.

Everything went right on as it always had, without thought or care for the mutant whose life had been irrevocably destroyed in the blink of an eye.

Because the Universe didn't care at all.

It never did. It never had. And it never would.

He used to take comfort in that.

An emotionless universe, set down in its laws and rhythms.

But it seemed for once that all those laws and rules and regulations should be broken and shattered.

The entirety of time and space torn apart, rent asunder and decimated.

It was only fair that it should be.

As he watched his Hope be lowered into the ground, interred forever away from him.

He didn't hear the words Charles Xavier spoke so solemnly to the quietly weeping mourners.

Didn't see her mother and father standing together, trembling with grief over the loss of their precious little girl, their only remaining child.

Didn't feel the hesitant hands of his friends and acquaintances patting him on the shoulder, on the back, offering their meaningless, hollow condolences.

Didn't see their shimmering tears or the sorrow in their faces.

Couldn't smell the pheromones of their grief or taste the misery of their broken hearts.

Even the Beast was silent within him.

Because although Hank McCoy drew breath after wasted breath, even though blood still moved with regularity throughout his circulatory system, he was no longer among the living.

Hank McCoy was dead.

Or should have been.

Because how could life possibly be worth living without his ethereal, fiery, bright-eyed Hope?

What purpose could there possibly be for his existence to be worth continuing?

And so, when Charles gave the slightest of nods, Hank numbly tossed a handful of dirt onto her wood-carved casket.

And stared vacantly into the nothingness, the void, the black hole that was all he had left in his life now that his beloved wife was gone from him forever.

He sensed cold, empty nothingness closing in on him.

And waited for it to consume him whole and take him away.

* * *

The bark of the dead log was rough and peeling.

Perhaps the very same log he had once sat on after a most unwelcome temporary reunion with Raven.

The one where his brave, sticky-fingered Hope had fearlessly gone toe-to-toe with the blue skinned mutant that despised Hank's human form.

Vehemently defending his life choices.

Blinking not an eye in the face of Mystique's sullen ire.

While Hank stood, struck mute and helpless.

Until finally slipping away amidst the distractions of the ever hyperactive Quicksilver Kid.

Seeking the quiet and solace of the woods.

Of the log.

Perhaps this very same one.

Or perhaps not all.

Perhaps it was a different one entirely.

And none of that mattered.

Because it was in the past.

And the past was dead and gone.

Just like her.

His light. His life. His Hope.

He looked down at the forged metal in his hands.

It was a small thing, a relatively light thing.

He didn't even know if it would work, if it would be enough to kill him.

Maybe the strength and power of the Beast would deflect the bullet.

Maybe it would save him.

Force him to live on.

Or maybe it would grant him reprieve from the insufferable misery that life had become now that she was gone.

He drew back the hammer, heard it click.

Now all that was left to do was to raise the derringer to his temple.

And pull the trigger.

He did so.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Raising the weapon.

Seeing her beautiful, smiling face in his mind's eye.

Being a scientist, Hank McCoy believed in truth, in fact, in evidence.

And he had never witnessed evidence of any higher power, any God that cared at all for his creations.

He had only witnessed the rules, the laws, the uncompromising ruthlessness of the Universe.

And had never minded.

Because that was science. That was life.

And so, not believing in an All Mighty One, he also didn't believe in a conscious life after death.

A heaven. A hell.

Nothing.

And so he did not fantasize that the bullet that ended his life would reunite him with his beloved Hope.

But only serve to discontinue an unendurable existence here without her.

Afford him an end to his suffering, his misery.

The pain of carrying on without her.

He closed his eyes, saw her face clearer than ever.

 _Hope. I love you, Hope. I'm sorry. I can't do this without you._

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Or tried to.

It wouldn't budge.

He squeezed harder.

"No."

The quiet, firm voice seemed to float to him from nowhere.

A female voice.

Not her voice.

Not _her_ voice either. Which was an absolute relief.

He lowered the gun from his thinly covered brainpan and looked around.

Her.

Of course her.

"Pancakes, Hank."

Chloe, the dyscalucalia-ed, telekinetic mutant, stood near an oak tree. One trembling hand braced against the trunk.

Tears bright in her eyes, as of yet unfallen to her cheeks.

Twenty-four years old.

And Hank had known her since she was ten.

Ten years old and fascinated by the blue furred, taciturn, mutant scientist that resided within Xavier Manor.

Following him everywhere, watching behind her green eyes as he skulked moodily to and fro.

Until he had finally turned.

Let her touch his furry hand.

And taught her how to flip pancakes and numbers in her head.

Taught her that she wasn't stupid.

Just different.

And that different was okay.

He had reached out, given her hope.

Before he even really had his own.

Her parents, under fear of mutant persecution, had flighted her away the next day.

But she had returned.

To live.

To teach.

To fall in love.

To reach out and give others hope.

And now, in his darkest moment, she was here again.

"You can't kill yourself, Hank. I won't let you."

The gun lay on his thigh now, safety clicked on by some unseen force.

Chloe's unseen force.

She came to him, sat near him.

Ignored the gun, held useless by the power of her mind.

"Hank, we need you."

 _To do what? Teach disaffected teenagers chemistry and physics? Anybody can do that._

"We need you to be here."

 _What, to protect you? Plenty of mutants just as powerful as me. More so even._

"We need you to care, to show us that mutants can live in peace."

 _You don't need me for that. Charles is practically a motorized mutant Gandhi at this point._

"Charles needs you too. He needs your mind. Your intelligence. Your stability."

 _Charles is a big boy now. He's got it covered._

"Hope wouldn't want this, Hank. She was always so proud of you. Of your strength. Your determination."

 _It doesn't matter what she would want. She's dead. Gone. And I can never get her back again._

A dry chuckle from his telekinetic pancake girl.

"She would actually be really pissed at you for this, you know? Quitting, giving up, copping out."

 _Yeah. She'd slap my face, tell me what an idiot I am. Hug me, tell me it was going to get better. She'd believe in me._

Nobody had really touched Hank since it had all happened.

Except Alex and Peter when they'd held him back in the hospital.

Everyone had been too awkward, too timid, too embarrassed. Too whatever.

And he hadn't cared. Hadn't wanted anyone encroaching on his physical space.

Not if they weren't her. His wife. His only.

Even Charles had had the decency to stay out of his mind.

But Chloe was Chloe to her very core.

Especially when it came to those she cared about.

And now she threw her arms around Hank's neck, squeezing him so tight he could feel her muscles trembling.

Feel his breath constricting.

Her warm, living skin on his skin.

"We love you, Hank. We need you. I need you. Please don't . . . don't die."

No one since his parents when he was very young, well, his mother mostly, ever told him they loved him.

Not until Hope.

And now Chloe.

He knew she didn't have romantic inclination toward him.

As he didn't have any toward her.

Her shuddering words were spoken only in the most caring of friendships.

"Hank . . . please. Just a year. Just live a year. Please. Then you can pick up that gun again if you have to."

He felt himself take a breath and let it out. Then another. And another.

Time stretched 'til it felt like it might snap.

Then the leaves crackled between his feet as the falling gun snapped their dry, fibrous veins.

And Hank McCoy sat, hands limp and empty.

Watering eyes closed behind horn-rimmed glasses.

Held fast and secure.

By his pancake girl.

Who refused to let him go.

* * *

 **'Paint It, Black'. Rolling Stones' song covered by Ciara. Go YouTube it. It's perfect for this chapter. Just go.**

 **And now you're in my head. Stay as long as you like. Just don't move the furniture.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and GladerTributeCamper for your encouragement and support.**

 **Two more chaps to go in this section. We'll make it, don't worry.**


	16. 365 Days

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

365 Days

* * *

Time passed slowly for Hank McCoy over the next year.

At night, he dreamed of her, only her.

Her smile. Her laugh. Her eyes. Her voice. Her smell. Her body.

They talked, they argued, they made love.

They _lived_.

Sometimes at the end of the dream, she faded away before his outstretched fingertips.

Or died all over again.

And he would awake in wrenching, blackest grief.

Sometimes at the end of the dream, she would be alive and well and so very much her.

With him.

And he would awake.

To the yawning, vast emptiness of life without her.

And that was worse.

Some days were bad _,_ worse than bad.

He would wake up in a black hole. Stare at the empty side of the bed where Hope's body used to lie next to his, warming his skin, his mind, his heart.

And he would be able to think of absolutely no reason whatsoever to move.

And inevitably, someone, usually Chloe, would drag him from his forlorn repose.

"Come on, Professor Beastie, come on! Dumb mutant punks need to learn smart shit today, come on!"

And if he did not obey, she would use that insufferably stubborn mind of hers to toss the sheets off him.

Drag his blue-furred ass out of bed and _make_ him go.

"You know I love ya, Beastie. Now let's go!"

No one else in the Xavier abode, not even Charles himself, had the bravery, the tenacity, of Hank's pancake girl.

Ladling strong coffee, half burnt toast, and vitamins into him by the bucketload before shuttling him off to teach class, experiment in his lab, or, science forbid, shoving him out into the sunshine.

Other days, he would go more easily about his day-to-day tasks.

Brushing his hair, his teeth. Shaving.

All while avoiding his own haunted eyes in the reflective glass.

Teaching class, performing science experiments, conversing with Charles and the other necessary denizens of Xavier Manor.

Who struggled to say the right words, do the right things.

Hank knew they meant well. Tried dutifully to appreciate their awkward efforts.

And move on in due time, before their ill-concealed sorrow and pity shredded his nerves to the breaking point.

But he never, ever forgot his Hope. Not once. Not for a second.

And he always yearned for her.

Consciously. Unconsciously.

Sleeping. Wakeful.

Her.

Only her.

Forever her.

* * *

"Hey, Hank."

He didn't turn around.

He had known she would be there.

As flighty and silly as she wanted to _pretend_ to be, deep down Chloe was as steadfast and loyal as anyone he'd ever met in his life.

Including his Hope.

Part of him was relieved.

Part of him was not.

"Hey."

A century of silence.

"So, you're out here again today."

He didn't look down at the firearm once more gripped in his hands.

"Yeah."

She approached, quiet and intrusive on the soles of her worn sneakers.

"Boy, when I said a year, you really took me at my word, huh?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

She sat. Much in the same place she had a year ago.

"And I see you brought the gun."

He didn't respond this time, just remained staring.

Chloe took a deep breath.

"Have you decided to use it?"

Hank squeezed the barrel between his palms.

It was hard, unyielding. Like life.

"I don't know."

She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to wait him out.

Hank McCoy had never really been much of a rampant conversationalist. She'd always known that.

And when he was in a state such as this, well, he was practically an Egyptian sphinx.

But she was his friend.

She would wait until kingdom come if she had to.

And probably sometime thereafter as well.

Because he was Hank.

Finally, just as the stars were about align for the end of the world, he spoke.

"I just miss her so much, Chloe. She was everything to me. Always."

She nodded.

"I know, Hank. She was a lot to all of us. Made us feel like people instead of freaks."

Eons passed as they sat together.

Entire forests of redwoods might have grown and fallen in the time they sat there, musing upon the fallen light of Xavier Manor.

Then Hank sighed, expelling all the air from his lungs and then some.

Rose.

And faced himself back toward the mansion.

"Come on then. I've got to figure out how to explain the difference between endothermic and exothermic reactions to my next class."

Chloe grinned mischievously.

"Have you considered just blowing up the room?"

Hank almost smiled.

"Charles prefers not to encourage explosive tendencies among hormonally challenged mutants."

She huffed in mock derision, her green eyes mischievous.

"Hey, Charles is a boring old fuddy-duddy in a wheelchair with disaster insurance to pay. I'm just suggesting 'hands on' activities to keep their interest up!"

Hank's mouth twitched.

It was the closest he had come to a smile in a year.

Chloe decided it was a victory and stopped pushing him.

"Okay, come on."

Hank remained where he was for another quarter of a lifetime.

Looked down. Studied the gun in his hand.

Clicked the safety on.

And held it out to her.

"Give that back to Charles, would you? I kinda of . . . borrowed it without asking."

She nodded, tucking the cold metal up against the prickling flesh of her stomach and covered it with her t-shirt.

He gazed at her, blue eyes clear behind his glasses.

"Chloe?"

She raised her eyebrows in question.

Thank you."

She smiled warmly.

"You're welcome, Hank."

* * *

 **As I was writing this chapter, my videogame playing husband started singing 'Lonely Day' by System of a Down. Inspiration! So, once again, loyal readers, go YouTube.**

 **The song's also prominent in one of the best post-apocalyptic zombie movies I've ever seen, '28 Days Later'.**

 **But, as usual, I digress.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and GladerTributeCamper for your reviews.**

 **One more chapter in this section to go. When it's over, I believe you'll be able to breathe again.**


	17. My Hank

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I've given up attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

My Hank

* * *

He didn't mean to find it.

He wasn't even really looking for it.

Because he didn't know that it existed.

He just opened a drawer in their, his, bedroom one quiet, dark, lonely evening.

And there it was.

An envelope. Crisp and white.

Inscribed in neat, unassuming cursive.

 _Her_ neat, unassuming cursive.

 _My Hank._

His heart immediately started thudding painfully against his ribs.

His hand, shaking ever so slightly, reached down.

And picked it up.

It was unsealed and within lay a single sheet of plain paper.

His legs gave out then and he had to sit on the side of the bed to read it.

 _Dear Hank,_

 _Every so often, I sit down and rewrite this letter. And every single time, it changes a bit. But one thing remains the same. I tell you that I love you._

 _I love you, Hank._

 _I love everything about you. I love our life together. I love the joys we have experienced. I love that you have been at my side through the turmoils as well. Always so strong, so supportive, so loving._

 _I love you so much._

 _If I had one wish, I would wish that you would not be ashamed of yourself and your Beast side. Beast is a good entity, strong and willing to fight, like you. He gives you strength and the ability to protect those that need it._

 _And thanks to him, I know you will live long past when I am gone._

 _When that happens, Hank, please do not forget to look up. Look up and see the world and the possibilities within it. Please do not look down into the muck and mire of misery for too long._

 _I love you, Hank. I hope that when I am gone and you remain that you can find a way to continue on._

 _You and your Beast._

 _Please accept yourself. Accept all of yourself because all of yourself is worthy and can be used for good._

 _I love you, Hank. I have always loved you. I will always love you._

 _Please, Hank, accept yourself._

 _And know that I love you._

 _Your Devoted Hope_

And then because Hank was a man, a mutant man, he lowered his head.

And cried.

And when he was drained of tears, emptied out and hollow, he read it again.

And again.

And again.

Then in honor of his beloved Hope, Hank McCoy picked himself up and gave himself over to honestly and sincerely restoring himself and his life.

It was a long and difficult road.

But unbeknownst to him, he did not walk it alone.

* * *

And on the day Hank McCoy died, many, many years in the future, after a long and honorable life dedicated to furthering mutant peace and equality, in his inner shirt pocket close to his heart was discovered a tattered, faded envelope on which was penned, _My Hank_.

Inscribed in neat, unassuming cursive.

Inside was a letter.

* * *

 **Okay, sweeties, we've made it. I told you we would. In fact, as soon as I was struck by the idea of Hope's exit, I sat down and wrote this chapter like she told me to.**

 **Because I knew, as she did, that we all had to find a way to accept and move on.**

 **So I hope you can.**

 **And yes, I still know this is all fiction. Promise. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and GladerTributeCamper for staying strong through this tough section.**

 **Next up, let's brighten back up a little, shall we? Hope would want us to.**

 **See you in a few days!**


	18. Comings and Goings

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm still attempting to process Apocalypse, ha.

Dream On

Comings and Goings

* * *

"Prof, I gotta go."

1979.

Year of Three Mile Island, the Iran Hostage Crisis, and the introduction of the Happy Meal.

So, alot.

Understandably then, Peter Maximoff's sudden appearance in Charles Xavier's study and pronouncement of intent to leave really didn't cause much of a stir.

The man in the wheelchair barely glanced up.

"Yes, of course. Just remember our school's reputation, Peter. We don't want to alarm or frighten the humans."

Quicksilver's usual casually joking mood was nowhere to be found on the young man.

"No, Prof. I mean, I gotta go home. To stay."

The serious, somber words and tone with which they were said caused Charles to redirect his attention.

Peter's usually mischievous dark eyes were grim.

Charles laid down his papers.

"Peter, what's wrong? "

The silver-haired mutant stood motionless, almost statuesque in his unusual stillness.

"My mom's sick."

Then he zapped to.

All over the room.

"Smoking, you know."

Desk, ruffling papers.

"All those years . . ."

Chess board, six moves to win . . .

"Worrying about me and my sister's mutations . . ."

Then reset in the blink of an eye.

"Stress over my shenanigans . . ."

To the drink trolley. Charles wasn't sure if any liquid differentials occurred or not. He supposed it didn't matter. Not with a metabolism like that.

"And then my dad popping up, trying to take over the world . . ."

And then finally still at the plate glass window.

"I guess her lungs just couldn't keep up."

Gazing out over the gently rolling lawn of the manor.

Then he turned.

Charles saw the concern, the guilt, the love the lad had for his mother.

"So I guess you guys are just going to have to have fun without me for the forseeable future."

Hidden poorly behind a hastily strung up veil of nonchalance .

"I need to go home and look after her 'til she's better," he concluded, shrugging.

Charles smiled gently and held out a hand.

Peter looked at it for a second, then, with another zip from window to desk and shook it with a wan smile.

Charles read his mind almost accidentally.

And found a boy who simply loved to have a good time. Enjoyed intermingling with other mutants, finding ways to introduce fun and lightness into their usually uncertain, anxious existences.

But who loved his mother above himself and others.

Knew what she had sacrificed in order to support her children as best as she could.

And who would never have asked her unique son to come back to care for her.

Because she didn't have to.

Because Peter was on his way even as he yet stood still.

"Peter, it has been a pleasure to have you here with us," Charles Xavier stated sincerely. "You are welcome to come back anytime."

They released hands.

"I'd like you to take this with you," he requested, proffering a small white business card.

The card disappeared from Charles' hand in a ruffle of air. And reappeared in Peter's.

"What's this?"

Charles smirked fondly. The boy did tend to grow on one.

"Our contact information. In case you run across any mutants in need of our services."

What he revealed next was a precautionary measure Charles had decided what with all the mutant/human unrest was an unfortunate necessity.

"When you walk out of these doors and leave the mansion, we will seem like a dream to you, Peter. You will not remember our faces clearly nor our location at all. But if and when the time comes, you are welcome to return here and we will greet you with open arms. And of course, any mutants you bring with you. And your memories will return bright and clear."

Peter nodded casually, placing the card in his jeans.

"Oh. Cool."

And for the briefest of moments, an awkward silence hung in the air between them. Then Charles cleared his throat.

"Would you like to take a car?" he offered, quite magnanimously.

The quickster shook his head, thinking of his mother's worry over him suddenly arriving home in a fancy sportscar.

"Naw, I'll take the bus."

Peter seemed to want to say more.

More that, even without telepathic powers, Charles Xavier already knew.

"Well . . . bye!"

And just like that, Peter Maximoff, Xavier Manor's Quicksilver, was gone.

* * *

There were always people coming and going around Xavier Manor.

It was just one of those places.

The void left by the high-octane, fun-loving Peter Maximoff could not be filled just as the void left by others along the way could not be filled.

Ink and Chloe, striking out together to see the distant sunsoaked land of California.

"Oh please, _everybody's_ got tattoos there, man! They'll worship him as a god or something."

Morty the Toad and the quilled Max off on a mutant-finding mission for long lost siblings they suspected might have more in common than just breakfast cereal preferences.

"Don't worry about us, Professor! We'll be good."

"Hey, man. Speak for yourself."

And replaced here and there by children in need of guidance and education and older citizens ready to help educate and guide.

So there was always something distracting and interesting to discuss.

"I heard she was living in a shopping mall, man."

"No way. You can't _live_ in a shopping mall, man."

"Sure you can."

"Where would you sleep?"

"The mattress store, stupid."

"Well, where would you get food?"

"The food court, idiot."

"Yeah, well, how would you get a shower then?"

Silence. Deep consideration. Hesitant answers.

"The . . . gardening center?"

"Whoa. You just blew my mind, man!"

"I _know_ , right?"

"So have you seen her yet?"

"No. But I've heard she's, like, foreign."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Like, Asian or something."

"Actually, I'm Chinese-American."

"Heyyy, who are you?"

"I'm Jubilee."

"Oh wow, you _are_ beautiful!"

"Who are you again?"

"I'm Kurt. I'm blue!"

"Yeah, I can see that."

"I can teleport! See?"

 _Bampfh. Bampfh. Bampfh._

"Oh cool!"

"So what can you do?"

"Is it true you lived in a mall?"

"What's that like?"

"Where did you shower?"

"Well . . ."

* * *

 **And that, gentle readers, is how I decided to get Peter Maximoff back into his mom's basement for Apocalyse. And the subsequent Quicksilver-saves-the-kids-the-dog-and-the-goldfish scene.**

 **Also, hello, Jubilee! Aren't you a cutie?**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, and GladerTributeCamper for your pre-Thanksgiving reviews!**

 **Thanks also to SaffireSnake for adding your support to this story. :)**


	19. Okay, I'm Admitting It

On hiatus until further notice. I sincerely apologize. But I will return.


	20. Just a Girl

I do not own X-Men anything.

Oh well.

Dream On

Just a Girl

* * *

The room was empty. Quiet.

Dry and dusty and abandoned and dead.

Overturned desks and chairs lay everywhere.

Papers scattered about.

The neat cursive on the chalkboard at the far end of the room smudged, smeared.

Fingers of chalk and felt erasers littered the base.

She moved further into the room, trepidation momentarily cast aside by the vast expanse of windows facing her.

Delicate red flowers adorned the dirty plateglass.

 _Pretty flowers. Pretty, pretty flowers._

Sakura petals, she thought.

The window panes were covered with them.

She had seen them once, in a movie.

 _So pretty_.

Her feet moved her closer to the window.

She wanted to see them up close, open a window and touch their soft, velvety petals.

And so she kept moving, floating toward them.

And within inches of her goal, she stopped, blood suddenly chilled.

 _Oh . . . Oh no . . ._

They weren't delicate little red tree flowers at all.

They were handprints.

Tiny, tiny handprints .

Dozens of them, hundreds.

Covered in blood.

Streaks of blood.

Painted by small hands, children's hands.

 _No . . . oh no . . . No no no no-_

She turned from the horror, wheeled away, back toward the door.

But it was gone.

Replaced by a blank wall.

As if it had never existed at all.

She was trapped, caught.

The light outside was turning a sick, red shade.

And even worse, darkening and fafing.

Causing shadows to creep into the corners.

And then spread. Creeping across the floor.

Toward her.

And there were things in the shadows.

Unseen entities lurking in the corners. Dangling from the ceiling.

Slinking, skulking.

The children had not been enough.

They were still hungry.

Hungry for more flesh.

And she did not want to die in here.

She turned, spun, round and round, searching for escape.

Finding none.

Only the creatures in the corners and the little bloody handprints on the window to keep her company.

The noise started in the floor, under her feet.

A low, menacing rumble.

Thrumming through her feet, reverberating through her bones.

Rising in pitch and volume.

Filling the entire space with an escalating shriek that threatened to rupture her eyeballs and eardrums with the unbearable pressure and agony.

She crumpled to the floor, clamping her hands over her ears.

Squeezing her eyes shut and screaming.

Soundlessly, uselessly as the shriek overrode everything, filling the whole world with its force.

No escape, no escape.

Those hands, the prints of those tiny, desperate, clawing hands . . .

* * *

"Jean! Jean! Wake up, Jean! Jean?!"

 _Jean, listen to me. You need to stop. You need to calm your mind and leave this nightmare. You must wake up before you destroy us all._

Jean Grey jerked upright, gasping.

Opening her eyes.

Taking in the dim bedroom, it rich, dark wood paneled walls.

The collapsed books and knickknacks on the shelves.

Paintings knocked askew.

The fancy glass ceiling light still vibrating.

The overturned lamps.

And her roommate.

A younger girl, slight and scared.

She opened her rose petal mouth.

And for a moment, could not speak.

Only meaningless whimpers escaping her throat.

Finally, she managed a few scratchy words.

"What . . . what . . . what happened?"

The girl, wild eyed and terrified, shook her head in mute terror.

"What . . ."

 _Jean, I am here, outside the door. May I enter?_

"Yes," she barked out before realizing the Professor had spoken in her head.

The cowering teenager grew more agitated and she knew she thought she was going crazy.

Because she was.

 _Yes, Professor_ , she amended.

Even as the heavy wooden door swung slowly inward to reveal Charles Xavier.

Polite. Proper.

And very English in his evening robe.

And his shiny wheelchair.

He rolled in calmly, a warm smile on his handsome face.

The other girl, she guessed now former roommate, fled out the door even as other students cranes their necks to see in.

Without breaking eye contact with his charge, Charles gently but firmly closed the door with his mind.

And switched on the bedside lamp after righting it back onto the table.

"It's okay, Jean," he assured her quietly. "It's over."

The bewildered mutant looked around at the midnight destruction she'd wrought.

And burst into understandably hysterical tears.

"I'm sorry, Professor! I'm . . . sorry! It happened again! It was awful!"

Charles Xavier spoke words then he did not quite know how to believe.

"It's alright, Jean. It's going to be alright."

And the girl continued to cry,

* * *

She walked by herself through the halls of Xavier Manor.

Eyes fixed resolutely ahead. Arms clenched around her books.

They watched her while not watching her as she traversed her way to class.

Whispering behind their hands, passing notes about her.

Pausing in their heated debates regarding the new developments in The Empire Strikes Back to stare at her, the real freak.

Everybody was watching.

Or at least that's how she felt.

If any of the kids had taken the time to pick up Steven King's 1974 tome of terror chronicling the events surrounding a teenage girl with similar powers, they might have been more heavily motivated to be kinder to her.

For as her anxiety heightened with each passing hour and the her mood deteriorated with each stress-filled interaction, more odd occurrences manifested themselves.

Pictures rattling on the walls as she passed.

Books falling off shelves.

Pens without rupturing and spurting ink everywhere without warning.

Even furniture groaning and creakily scooting several inches across the room without any seen human hand to push them.

And Jean Grey, an anguished, tormented girl of beautiful deep blue eyes and flaming red hair, ducked her head down.

Stared at the floor. And escaped as quickly as possible.

* * *

To the rolling green lawn.

Below a clear blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds.

And a fresh summer breeze teasing the leaves of the massive oak trees.

She was by herself.

Away.

The outside of the manor was vast enough to afford her adequate seclusion.

Which was what she craved.

Well, not craved. But desired.

No, not desired but needed.

Not even needed.

At all.

Jean Grey was, at her natural core, a very loving and lively girl.

At the least before the manifestation of her powers.

She loved to talk and laugh. Play and cavort with her friends.

She had the fiery temper of what her mother called her Irish blood but it only presented itself when she perceived injustice was being done.

A friend shunned.

A stray puppy pelted with rocks.

A brother pulling the heads off her few dolls.

And other such things that were the way of life.

But by and large all little Jean wanted was the enjoyment and laughter and happiness and love of her friends and family.

So this lonely, withdrawn, dour girl with telekinetic and telepathic and other as of yet undiscovered powers wasn't who she wanted to be.

Not anymore.

Not for a long time.

* * *

 **Hello again!**

 **I know it's been awhile; hope you're still out there.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, Muggleborn92, and GladerTributeCamper for your reviews way on back!**

 **Thanks also to Multifangirl6 for adding your support to this story.**


	21. Good Intentions

I do not own X-Men anything.

Oh well.

Dream On

Good Intentions

* * *

"Are you purposefully using your powers to intimidate the other students, Jean?"

Charles Xavier's tone was mild, yet firm.

Jean's lovely, young face crumpled in on itself with stress as she perched anxiously in one of the chairs in his study.

"No, Professor."

He eyed her closely.

"I need you to be honest with me, Jean. It is imperative that we as mutants do not use our powers against one another. We must have trust and safety within our community."

Tears sprang to the girl's eyes.

"No, Professor, I'm not!"

She hesitated, then bit her lip, visibly shaking.

"I just . . . I mean . . . I don't how to control it and the more upset and worried I get, the worse . . ."

She stopped, twisted up and confused and afraid. Clenching and unclenching her pale, thin hands. Finally she burst forth in genuine regret and anguish.

"I don't _want_ to be like this, Professor!"

The antique lamps are the room flickered. The amber colored liquid in the crystal reservoirs sloshed as the serving art rattled.

Shame and frustration welled up further in the poor girl inadvertently causing it all.

As Charles Xavier sat seemingly unperturbed in the midst of it all.

The thought had occurred to him and the possibility of it was more concerning than her purposefully causing issues within their ranks.

Because she could not control her power, there would have to be a contingency to control it for her.

Thereby taking away her free will.

Or . . .

* * *

". . . of the most powerful mutants I have ever encountered. Unfortunately she has little control or understanding of the power she carries within her."

Charles Xavier took a deep, troubled breath. And exhaled just as slowly.

"And I truthfully don't know how to best help her."

He stopped, staring out at the green mutant covered lawn of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Then he continued speaking, just as quietly as before.

"I wish you were here, Erik. I wish we could dicuss this over a game of chess. I wish you . . ."

He let the unfinished thought fade away even as it formed in his mind.

 _. . . were still my friend._

He wasn't projecting his thoughts or speaking to anyone in particular. He was only speaking to himself.

Or rather the himself that hung in the back of his mind, the old one. The bald one. The one with steely, determined hope firmly esconced in his depthless eyes.

He needed guidance, he needed help.

He needed . . . the serum.

And a drink.

Maybe more than one.

He remained where he was.

Contemplating.

Speculating.

"Perhaps . . ."

 _Perhaps she could be trained to harness her power. Direct it. Control it._

* * *

"I don't want to do this, Professor. I'm scared."

The girl's voice quavered as she spoke.

Standing rigid, hands knotted into white knuckled fists.

 _Calm your mind, Jean. You must learn to control your powers._

Shiny helmet atop her fiery tresses, thick cords running to the console that regulated Cerebro's inner workings.

"I . . . I don't know if I can."

Charles Xavier took a deep breath, trying to think through the smooth surreshing voice in his head.

 _I know what you're doing, Charles._

 _Step aside, Erik. You're only a figment of my imagination anyway._

 _I still know a labrat when I see it._

Then the haunting voice faded, though Charles still felt the disapproving aura linger.

The room was dark, save for slight glow along the pathway back to the door and ghost glow around the console.

 _Focus your thoughts, Jean. Open your mind. Imagine looking for someone in a crowd._

The void of Cerebro was quiet, dark.

Hush with anticipation.

 _Jean_?

And suddenly the entirety of the domed room exploded into dazzling light so bright, Charles actually felt physical pain.

As dozens of shape lights lit up like shining beacons.

Red and white, human and mutant.

 _Very good, Jean. Let us stay within the parameters of the Manor, shall we? Find a mind and tread carefully._

But the telepathic girl appeared to be ignoring him. Swept away by the sudden emergence of power Cerebro had awakened her to.

Instead, the luminescent path of her search left the realms of upstate New York.

Traveling far afield.

 _Jean, stay within the parameters of the Manor, please._

Down and away.

Through growing myraids of human and mutant minds, touching briefly. Moving on.

As though searching for something or someone of extreme importance.

 _Jean? Jean. Jean._

Until she stopped. Somewhere in the marshland state of Florida.

Honing in on one particular form.

White, indicting human. Surrounded by other forms, mostly human, a dot or two of mutant.

 _Jean? What are you doing?!_

The entranced girl smiled thinly and Charles Xavier realized her mind had gone suddenly alien and dark.

 _I've found him._

Her astral voice was flat, as if she, but not she, were really speaking. Dread started to well up in Charles' heart.

 _The man who hit Annie with his car._

 _Annie-_

 _She's dead because of him._

The figure staggered.

 _She's dead._

 _Jean-_

 _And he doesn't even care._

Clutched at his head.

 _He's at a party._

 _Jean-_

 _He's at a party and Annie's dead._

Crumbled to his knees.

 _Annie should be at a party._

 _Jean!_

 _And he should be dead._

While the other figures amassed around him, shuffling bending down to him and jostling in what was clearly a panic.

 _He should be dead._

 _Jean!_

Charles Xavier telekinetically jerked the power source from Cerebro.

 _Professor, it's not fair._

Only to find Jean was not only psychically assaulting the helpless human.

 _She died._

But also powering Cerebro in the face of his efforts to abort the session.

 _Jean, stop!_

 _And it hurt her so much._

 _Jean!_

 _She was my friend. And she didn't deserve to die._

 _Jean!_

And then all went dark.

* * *

The first sensation she felt was an awful headache.

Throbbing, pounding.

As if her head were about to split apart.

Groaning, she put her hands to her temples,

And opened her eyes to see flickering sunlight dappling the room through the lace curtains that hung at the window.

She moaned pitifully.

And saw him move.

Professor Xavier in his wheelchair.

Posture straight, face a mask of worry.

"Jean."

He wheeled to her bedside, stopping close enough to touch.

"Are you alright?"

She closed her eyes again.

"My head hurts. What happened?"

His eyes grew more hooded and worried.

"You . . . you don't remember?"

She tried to shake her head, only to have a nauseating roiling pain ground the movement to a halt.

"No. I . . . remember talking about going into Cerebro. And then . . . and then . . ."

It was like a blackhole in her mind. As if something that should have been there had been scoped out like ice cream in a bucket.

"I can't remember. Did I do something bad?"

Charles Xavier kept his face an impassive blank.

"It uh, it actually didn't work. I do apologize for the inconvenience of missing class for nothing. I know how studious you prefer to be. Admirable quality."

He tried to smile normally, but it just felt sick and crooked.

"What about my headache?"

Charles forced himself to shrug casually.

"I believe you slipped and took a rather sharp knock to head actually."

 _You're a ridiculously pitiful lier, Charles._

 _Sticks and stones, Erik. You should be here to help me._

 _If I were, I would helping her learn to control her powers, Charles._

 _She's too dangerous for that now. Perhaps when she is older, more mature._

 _So you plan to keep her power caged up under your supervision? As you did with Mystique?_

 _I will not bandy arguement with a phantom of my imagination, Erik._

 _As you wish, old friend._

Charles redirected his attention to the frightened girl before him.

Jean Elaine Grey, red of hair. Green of eyes.

Thirteen years old.

Who had, a scant six hours ago, murdered a man over a thousand miles away by liquefying the soft tissues of his brain.

Using nothing more than Cerebro.

And the power of her own mind.

* * *

 **So it is cannon that Xavier used Jean's powers in Cerebro. I kinda made up the rest.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, GladerTributeCamper, and Muggleborn92 for coming back and reviewing!**


	22. Playing with Fire

I do not own X-Men anything.

Or multiple personalities, yay!

Dream On

Playing with Fire

* * *

"Close your eyes, Jean. Relax your muscles. Concentrate on your breathing."

The girl on the couch did so.

She lay reclined on her back. Hands folded primly across her abdomen.

Sneakered feet demurely crossed at the ankles.

"Breathe deeply in through your nose and slowly out through your mouth."

Charles Xavier, fellow telepath and sometimes hesitant leader of the children of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, sat on the other side of the coffee table from his charge.

In his shiny, top of the line wheelchair.

His wheelchair which he still, after all these years, hated with a passion.

The study was quiet, a small fire crackling in the hearth.

The lights were low, so as to provide a calming atmosphere for the session.

After several minutes of guiding her through meditative techniques, Charles stopped.

He believed he had her in a deep trance state.

In a full wakeful state, she grew too skittish of her powers and they often spiraled out of her control because she feared them so much.

He thought maybe he could teach her to control her powers in a more relaxed setting.

"Jean, can you hear me?"

Her voice was wavy and light, like cotton candy, air when she responded.

"Yes, I can hear you."

He nodded.

"Jean, can you feel the couch on which you lay?"

She responded after a moment of quiet.

"Yes. It's soft."

An acceptable response.

"Can you feel the weight of it?"

A pause.

"Yes."

"Is it heavy?"

Another pause.

"It has mass."

Charles smiled crookedly before continuing.

"Can you lift it a few inches off the floor with your mind?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Easily and seemingly without effort, the heavy upholstery rose a few inches in the air.

Charles smiled.

She was much more capable free of her anxieties and fears.

"Very good, Jean. Put it down now, please."

Instead, the couch rose higher, three feet up off the floor.

"Jean?"

And higher.

"Jean."

Almost to the ceiling.

"Jean, lower the couch down, please."

 _Stop telling me what to do, Professor._

 _Jean, please._

She did not respond, leaving him alone with her mind a vast darkness surrounding him.

 _Jean, I am trying to teach you how to control your powers. This is counter-_

 _I_ can _control my powers, Professor._

And the shiny, top of the line wheelchair rose up off the fancy carpet.

 _See?_

With the man himself trapped within.

Charles Xavier forced down the initial helpless panic and strove to remain calm.

 _Jean, put me down._

Her astral self scoffed.

 _Why? Just because you said so?_

She raised him higher and he decided to take control of the situation.

Lower his chair and her couch both to the floor.

End the session.

Only, he couldn't.

Jean Grey, thirteen year old teenage girl, was stronger than him.

 _Are you_ fighting _me, Professor? Am I_ beating _you?_

He grimaced as not only he was met with a blank wall of solidity.

Unable to move to maneuver or manipulate any object in the room, including himself and the couch, whatsoever.

 _Jean, stop this._

 _Stop ordering me around, Professor. I'm not your pet or your parlor trick._

But also a building pressure in his skull.

Squeezing his eyes and sinuses into excruciating pain.

 _Jean! Please stop! Please!_

 _I hate you all, Charles Xavier. I hate you because you are free. You are free and I am trapped._

 _I'm not trying to trap you, Jean. I'm trying to help you._

 _Well, now you're the one who's trapped and needs to be set free. How does it feel?_

 _Jean, put me down._

 _Say please._

 _. . ._

 _Please, Jean._

The wheelchair and couch touched down so softly one might think it had all been an illusion.

As if to once more prove the extent of her control of her abilities.

Jean Elaine Grey, without the permission or assistance of Charles Xavier, returned from her hypnotic state.

Opened her eyes and sat up on the side of the couch.

"What happened, Professor? Did it work?"

Her clear blue eyes were guileless, innocent.

Charles Xavier found himself shaking.

And unable to speak.

"Professor?"

* * *

Charles Xavier found himself in a room.

A girl's room. Pink canopy bed. White dresser and bedside room.

White rocking chair complete with a pink ruffled cushion on which to sit.

Smiling stuffed animals and play pretty toys neatly arranged and organized.

Unicorn and kitty posters on the walls.

It smelled of baby powder and little girl perfume.

And hopes and dreams.

The closet was slightly ajar.

And Charles remembered a short story he had once read about a monster that stole into houses and killed a little boy's entire family one by one.

And them melted away into the shadows so that no authority figure would believe the little boy.

The little boy had grown up terrified of half open doors.

He always closed them tight against the monster.

Charles moved toward the door intent on closing it when he heard a sound.

It was a little girl. Sitting alone on her bed. Thumbing through a coloring book.

Charles, walking on two healthy legs, smiled calmly.

"Hello, Jean."

"Hello, Professor."

""What are you doing?"

"Looking for some good pictures. Annie and I are going to color after supper."

Annie. Her long, dead friend who had been hit by a car.

Who had died in her friend's arms.

Jean, who had felt the painful, frightening death as if it were her own.

"Is she here now?" Charles questioned gently.

The girl giggled happily.

"No, of course not, silly. She's not _invisible_. She's coming over later."

The little girl hummed as she inspected the coloring pages, choosing carefully.

Inside the closet, Charles Xavier thought he heard something.

Something he could not quite identify.

Something quiet. Hidden.

A crackle perhaps.

"Jean?"

The girl didn't bother to glance up at him.

"Jean, the closet door seems to be ajar. May I close it?"

Jean shook her fiery head.

"No, you can't."

Charles peered at her closely.

"Why not?"

Jean Grey shrugged her little shoulders.

"Because there's a monster in my closet."

She said it so casually, so calmly. As if everyone had monsters in their closets that they lived with all the time.

Maybe they did.

"Does the monster scare you?"

She seemed to think about it.

"No, not really. The monster protects me."

This was a new development.

"Who does the monster protect you from, Jean?"

She carefully tore out a page and laid it next to her before responding with simple childish logic.

"Anyone bad."

He dared to ask the next question.

"What does the monster do to them?"

Her careless words seemed to echo within the expanse of the room.

"She hurts them."

* * *

 **You know, I'll just let you weigh in on this one without a load of exposition from me.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and Muggleborn92 for your reviews!**


	23. Protector and Keeper

I do not own X-Men anything.

Or multiple personalities. Yay!

Dream On

Protector and Keeper

* * *

"Jean, what if I told you the monster in your closet shouldn't hurt people?"

Another day, another session.

And Jean was not alone this time.

She was on the floor of her room, coloring.

With Annie.

Annie as Jean remembered her most vividly.

Brown curly pigtails. Brown eyes.

Blood covering the front of her torn play dress.

One shoe on one foot.

Scratches covering her thin arms and legs.

And a large deep gash across her face.

It was gruesome.

Surreal.

And haunting.

"Well, people shouldn't hurt people either."

 _Very good point, my dear._

Charles Xavier, free of bullet induced paralysis, sat down on the floor with the children.

And tried to reason with her.

"I would very much like you to close the door, Jean."

The girl did not respond.

And her mutilated friend had not yet spoken a word nor paid Charles Xavier any sort of attention whatsoever.

"I don't know. She might not like it."

He had tried, despite his overwhelming instinct to recoil, to speak with Annie.

To involve her.

"Hello, Annie."

The child had stared silently at him.

"How are you, my dear?"

Without responding.

"Do you like to color as well?"

Or blinking.

Little Jean had solved the problem.

"She doesn't like to talk to anybody but me."

Charles resolutely kept his smile plastered on his face.

"Really? Why is that?"

Apparently the answer was obvious.

"Because she says she's only here for me. She says she wants to stay with me to make sure nothing happens to me."

And now, with the silent spector of Annie studying him too interested try for comfort, Charles Xavier tried again.

"What will she do if I try to close the door, Jean?"

Little Jean Grey shrugged.

"I don't know. I've never tried. But the monster doesn't like to be shut up in the dark."

Charles glanced at Annie, who didn't seem concerned with the conversation in the least.

"How do you know, Jean?"

The thing in the closet crackled, like fire.

And Jean Grey responded.

"Would you?"

* * *

Charles Xavier wasn't sure if he was getting anywhere with his sessions with Jean.

But he felt he had to keep trying.

"Annie, do you know about the monster in Jean's closet?"

The little girl eyed him closely but did not respond.

At this point, the telepath had not really expected her to.

"I'm afraid the monster is going to unintentionally hurt Jean. On the inside. In her mind. Where we can't see."

Jean gently brushed her doll's blonde hair, now appearing to be the one oblivious to the interaction between the focused Charles and the gruesome Annie.

"If the door is closed, perhaps, she will be more safe."

Annie looked to Jean.

Back to Xavier.

"Will you help me, Annie?"

And to the door.

Where the thing inside still waited.

"Will you help me protect Jean?"

Slowly, very slowly, the girl in the blood stained dress carefully laid down her brunette haired doll.

And rose.

Jean, completely involved in her play, gave no notice.

As Annie walked across the room.

And gently shut the closet door.

Charles Xavier released a careful exhalation of relief.

And turned back to Jean.

Missing how the dead Annie's dark brown eyes, for the briefest of moments, glowed an unearthly red.

* * *

Now when Jean Grey walked the halls of Xavier Manor, books did not go flying.

Paintings did not shake on the walls, not even when Yoko's favorite Beatle was gunned down in front of his own apartment building.

The other children were still hesitant of her and she still roomed alone.

Nobody invited her to go see _The Empire Strikes Back_. Or _The Blues Brothers_.

Nobody asked her if she preferred Blondie over Billy Joel.

Or who shot JR.

And nobody handed her a Rubix Cube.

She was still withdrawn and Charles Xavier supposed only time would alleviate those particular symptoms.

He did not dare remove her past memories, her past emotions, and self perceptions for fear of destroying and fracturing who she was.

Further damaging the girl's psyche.

No longer did he test her strength in Cerebro or in hypnosis sessions.

Only simply encouraged her to levitate small objects, skeets, or for Alex's amusement, the still abundant but dwindling stash of his mother's ugliest China plates.

When Jean did dare to use her powers, they were minimal and weak.

Only in the throes of sleep did she present fearful powers. And only then, very rarely.

Charles Xavier kept a close eye on her,

Mused over, ruminated over what he had done to protect Jean. The children.

Quite possibly, the world.

* * *

 **Well, that's the end of Jean's story arc. She's gonna be around, but relatively quiet until Apocalypse, which is a completely different story.**

 **We'll be moving on now. Enjoying a bit more lightheartedness 'cause these last coupla chapters were a little intense. At least for me.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and Muggleborn92 for reviewing!**


	24. John Wayne and the Mutants

I do not own X-Men anything.

Or Marion Mitchell Morrison.

Dream On

John Wayne and the Mutants

* * *

"Well, it finally happened, man. That guy from those old westerns got elected president!"

"Who, John Wayne?"

Exasperated sigh.

"No, not John Wayne, stupid. Reagan!"

"Who?"

Another exasperated sigh.

"Okay, well, I didn't say he was a _super_ big star or anything."

1981 was definitely bringing some significant changes to the world.

Shoulderpads were becoming a thing.

So was anything ultrasheek and ultrasleek.

Sauve, sophisticated.

The trends were going around.

Not even the mutants at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters were immune to them.

The students didn't usually have much money to splurge on extra clothes and sundries.

And the adults frequently found other priorities above vanity.

Still, Hank McCoy inexplicably found himself buying pleated pants.

Alex Summers' army haircut had grown out and was now slightly waved.

Charles Xavier had always been inclined toward polish and style.

And of course, Ronald Reagan and his wife Nancy, had been elected the President and First Lady.

With some guy from Texas . . .

"What's his name?"

"I dunno. Something about a tree? Shrub?"

"Bush."

"Like the beer?"

"Uh, I think it's spelled differently."

"Man, I hope so."

. . . as their Vice.

* * *

Life moved along.

Some good . . .

"Oh look! Lady Di and Prince Charles!"

"Awww . . . they are _so_ in love!"

Some bad . . .

"Well, didn't take long for him to get shot, huh?"

"Well, he is a movie star."

A passerby.

"Who, John Wayne?"

"No, not John Wayne, man! The president! Would you stop it with John Wayne, you're obsessed with John Wayne!"

"I am not obsessed with John Wayne! You're the one talking about him!"

"That's my point! I am _not_ talking about John Wayne!"

* * *

"Now somebody shot the _Pope_!"

"What? Seriously? What'd _he_ do?!"

"I don't know, it's not like he was John Wayne or anything."

"Don't you dare start that again!"

* * *

Film continued to capture the hearts and minds of those who craved adventure.

 _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , for instance.

"Holy crap, that's Han Solo!"

"Who?"

"Han Solo! From _Star Wars_?!"

"I didn't see it."

"Get away from me."

* * *

According to some, the skirmishes on foreign battlefields were nothing compared to the wars constantly waged in the TV room.

"What are you watching?"

"Dallas."

"No, that's for old people, give me that remote."

"Hey . . . whoa, what's this?"

"Three's Company."

"Who's that?"

"John Ritter."

"Mmm . . . maybe I'll just watch a minute."

* * *

And of course, new students trickling in on a weekly basis, it seemed.

And for every dour, reserved mutant youngster fearful and anxious regarding their powers, there was another, more confident, more outgoing youth to balance the scales.

Enter Jubilation Lee.

Pretty. Petite. Perky.

Asian American mutant orphan.

With her neon bright clothes.

And her bubbly attitude.

Her parents, Chinese immigrants, determined to make a better life for themselves, had settled in the sun soaked oasis of California.

Worked hard. Applied themselves.

And succeeded.

By the time their little Jubilation came along, they were wealthy, healthy, and ready to firmly ensconce their daughter in the world of the privileged American.

And they did.

The best clothes, the best schools.

Extracurricular after school gymnastics. To train the body as well as the mind.

All tempered by an attitude of dedication and determination.

It would have worked too.

She had the potential for not only academic success.

Jubilation had Olympic potential as well.

Which served her quite on the night two men broke into their house.

And murdered her parents.

As she hid in the rafters of her house, listening to the awful screams of her butchered parents, she had no idea why they were dying.

When the assassins set fire to the house to cover up the evidence, she snuck out under cover of smoke and flame.

The authorities found her, shivering and terrified and hungry, miles away from home.

And promptly and with the utmost care regarding paperwork and government regulations, placed her in a state orphanage.

She lived there two months.

Where she was ridiculed.

For her coarse, black hair. Her dark almond eyes.

Her precise diction. Her intelligence.

And her polite mannerisms.

And of course, her ability to produce, for lack of better understanding, fireworks from her fingertips.

They called her "Sparky" and "Electro".

Because they were scared. Because they were afraid.

And because they were jealous.

She went to the staff, asked for help.

And was promptly reprimanded for "tattling" and "not getting along with others".

Two months was all it took.

For Jubilation Lee to make up her mind.

And run away.

She didn't have anywhere to go, anyone to turn to.

So she went to the only place a teenage girl in the '80s ever wanted to be.

A place that made her feel happy and free.

The mall.

She lived there in relative comfort for quite awhile.

Stealing from the food court.

Wandering the commerce during the day.

Checking the slots for quarters for the arcade.

Sleeping in the mattress store at night.

Cleaning up in the public bathroom.

And of course, procuring her own kind of employment.

Entertainment.

She shot multicolored sparks from her fingertips, disco ball lights from her palms.

She dazzled them, wowed them, made them believe it was all a trick.

A good trick.

And they paid.

In cash. In coins.

Cheeseburgers. And shakes.

And it was fine. It worked.

But after a while, it was lonely.

People came and went.

Sometimes they were the same people.

Stay at home moms with strollers who perused the same clothing stores day after day.

Comic book nerds ruffling through the same plasticked superhero stories week after week.

And of course, giggling, flirting teenage girls just like her.

Except they had homes to go to at end of the day, parents that cared about them.

And Jubilation Lee was alway left, abandoned, to cry herself to sleep at night.

For her dead parents.

For her lost life.

For her loneliness.

So one day when a mysterious voice talked to her in her head . . .

 _Hello, Jubilation Lee, my name is Charles Xavier . . ._

. . . she went willingly with the car . . .

"Hi, I'm Dazzler!"

. . . that came to pick her up.

And when she saw the mansion and the smiling faces and felt the sense of acceptance that pervaded the place, she decided to stay.

Where, despite the customary grumblings and arguements, she, like most of the other mutant students there, secretly liked being made to go to class.

Eat supper.

Have a curfew.

And homework.

Well, maybe not homework.

* * *

 **I told you we were gonna get more lighthearted for a bit.**

 **The Jubilee origin is a mixture of cannon and me, as per norm.**

 **And we'll be seeing more of her for the short reminder of this story.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and Muggleborn92 for the great reviews!**


	25. Girl Power

I do not own X-Men anything.

Or teenagers. Yet.

Dream On

Girl Power

* * *

"Alright, what is a logical argument in which each statement you make is supported by a statement that is accepted as true? Ray?"

"A proof!"

"Correct!"

Shower of green sparks over the head of the proud scholar.

"What is a statement that describes a fundamental relationship between basic terms of geometry and is accepted as true without proof? Jenny?"

"Postulate!"

"Correct!"

Shower of purple sparks.

"What is a statement or conjecture that can be proven true by given definitions, postulates, or already proven theorems? Joe?"

"A theorem!"

"Correct!"

Shower of orange sparks.

"What is an educated guess based on known information called? Joy?"

"Hypothesis?"

"No. Try again."

". . . Conjecture?"

"Yes!"

Red and blue sparks.

"Okay, name a . . ."

* * *

Class was over. The quiz papers on the teacher's desk.

And everyone was gone.

Well, not quite everyone.

"Jubilation-"

"It's Jubilee."

The strawberry blond cleared her throat, setting herself square with the young mutant.

Who was clearly preparing herself for tongue lashing for her classroom antics.

By popping her gum louder and crossing her arms defiantly across her chest.

"Jubilee. Your power is very unique-"

"Yeah and dangerous, I know."

Susanna Cambridge, resident geometry teacher of the Xavier School and not just a little bit of a patient pyropath (she'd paid surprisingly little in heating billing before coming to Xavier's), started again.

"Jubilee, I was wondering if you would like some extra tutoring in geometry. I think if we apply your ability to your studies, you would really excel."

The girl tried her best to look apathetic.

"Why would I be interested in that?"

The teacher smiled.

"Because . . ."

Suddenly a perfectly isosceles triangle of flame appeared in the palm of her hand, forming and reforming itself over and over again.

". . . then you can give form to your abilities. And _really_ show off."

Jubilation Lee stared at the triforce of flame floating above the adult's hand.

And grinned.

The pryopath grinned back.

"Yeah?"

"Yes!"

* * *

". . . been studying her, Hank?"

"Yes."

"And these fireworks-"

"Technically, they're energy plasmoids-"

"Energy . . . plasmoids. Are they dangerous?"

"They can be. Anything composed of explosive energy can be damaging."

"Hmm . . ."

Charles Xavier's mental list of Potentially Deconstructive Mutants was growing uncomfortably long.

And complicated.

* * *

Of course, they didn't always use their powers to fight back against their adversaries.

"Urrrggghhh . . ."

"Pardon, what exactly has happened here?"

Another hallway.

Another day.

Another dispute.

Another tale to be told.

"Well . . ."

 _"That's not possible!"_

 _"Well, she is!"_

 _"Nuh-nuh!"_

 _"Yeah, and she doesn't need to be pretty or wear short skirts to do it! Margaret Thatcher is a badass!"_

 _"She can't be in charge of a whole_ country _, she's a woman!"_

" . . . and that's why I had to kick him in the balls, Professor!"

Heavy sigh from the man in the wheelchair.

A nod of affirmation.

"Alright, young man, you'd be better get up and apologize."

"Me, why me?"

"Is she telling the truth of what you you said?"

"Well, yeah."

"There's your reason."

"Man . . ."

"Teresa, if you feel so inclined . . ."

"Okay, okay!"

Were all conflicts so easily resolved.

Though Mother Hen Xavier found himself quite weary at times of mediating them.

* * *

UFO sightings seemed to have risen substantially in upstate New York.

And nobody . . .

"One . . ."

. . . quite knew why.

". . . two . . . "

Or would readily admit it.

". . . three!"

Teresa Cassidy's sonic burst met with Jubilee's turquoise energy plasmoid, sending it soaring wildly above the the treeline before disappating like a smoke ring.

"Yes! High five!"

The girls burst into girlish laughter, faces aglow with triumph.

And suddenly felt they were being watched.

Turning in unison, they found themselves face to face with . . .

Boys.

Lizard Eyes.

And two of his buddies.

Complete with an unfortunate set of fresh acne and raging hormones

Were staring, rather unceremoniously at two very pretty, very giggling, very smiley teenage girl mutants.

And really couldn't think of a single thing to say but . . .

"Hi."

With of course prompted said girls to respond appropriately.

And run giggling off in the other direction.

* * *

"Where they stumbled across the withdrawn, defunct Jean Grey . . .

 _Handprints on the glass, why am I thinking of flowers . . ._

. . . alone by herself, back against a largw, towering oak.

"Hey, oh, hey!" Jubilee exclaimed sincerely. "Wow, your hair is beautiful!"

Jean Grey barely smiled, pressing back as if to actually become one with the tree if possible.

"Hi. Um, thank you."

The energy plasmoid sparks shooter dove on.

"I'm Jubilee! I blow stuff up!"

The girl on the ground seemed uncomfortable, almost squirrelly.

"Jean."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing."

"Oh."

The bubbly girl seemed to take this in stride.

"Wanna go do nothing on the kitchen? I need a Tab."

Silence from the girl on the ground.

"Um, ok."

* * *

 **They say your life affects your writing.**

 **How obvious is it that it's the end of the school year for me? *facepalm***

 **Thanks to brigid1318 and Muggleborn92 for the great reviews!**


	26. The End is The Beginning

I do not own X-Men anything.

And I'm not gonna whine about it.

Dream On

The End is the Beginning

* * *

Charles Francis Xavier was quite a powerful telepath .

Made stronger by his determination, his dedication to the older, more folicely challenged future version of himself.

He strove to keep himself as honed and prepared and alert as possible.

While still maintaining his sanity.

That in itself was quite the challenge.

The voices, all the voices. All the need. All the fear and uncertainty and desperation.

All the chaos.

Even so, he had worked diligently to focus his power, perfect it.

And in so doing had regained much of his former mental accuity and glory.

So the psychic blast should have rocked him, assaulted his attuned brain.

Set his nerves into shock.

Perhaps even rendered him comatose with its intensity.

Especially considering the proximity.

But such was not the case.

Perhaps he was slightly off, less mindful of his psychic surroundings that day.

Perhaps he was distracted by deep thoughts regarding his planned discussions for the morrow's philosophy class.

Perhaps he was too concerned with his stylish hair or his Pre-Miami Vice era attaire.

Perhaps he was still mourning the ending of M.A.S.H.

It was possible his worries, concerns, and yearnings for Moira McTaggert had a hand in straying his focus.

Or mullings over the alarmingly violent nightmares and dreamscapes of the young Jean Grey.

Assimilations of optically weaponized Steve Summers into their midst.

His ponderings over the recently disturbing tremors in the fabric of the world.

It could have been any number of these things.

Or any impossible combination of others.

Charles Xavier did, after all lead a very complicated life.

He juggled it quite well.

But no one is perfect.

And he did miss things from time to time.

Though it was hard to believe he missed the advent of this.

Because it hardly appeared as a blip of his psychic radar.

The moment.

The second.

When Hank McCoy's aura should have exploded into a kaleidoscope of emotion.

Instead, it was only a whisper.

A murmur actually.

That he himself never saw coming.

"Raven."

* * *

 **The End.**

 **Sorta.**

 **I am going to write for Apocalypse. Because, well, I must.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, GladerTributeCamper, and Muggleborn92 for so graciously reviewing this story :)**

 **Thank also to jazzzypink for adding your support to this story!**


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